A Dawg in the Houses of the Holy

-12
You say it half joking, half bitter:
I’m built for the fight,
that you only trust songs that sound like an argument with God,
movies that end in night.
You talk like wanting simple joy is some kind of betrayal
of the shit you’ve seen.
Like craving a cheesy flick disrespects every scared kid
that crossed the screen.

But then you light up
when someone’s dog waddles past in a tiny raincoat,
when kids laugh too hard at a stupid balloon.
You keep rewatching that one movie where nothing terrible happens,
just friends making pancakes under the moon.
You hide your crush on dumb pop songs
under playlists labeled ironic,
deny how hard your heart leans toward soft,
pretend you’re above all that happy crap
while secretly saving videos of old couples dancing slow.

You survived by expecting the worst,
by assuming every good thing had a trapdoor and a bill.
So now when something gentle appears
your first instinct is to push it away.
But the part of you that still wants
birthday candles and forehead kisses
keeps fighting against the will.

You imagine telling someone
I want flowers sometimes,
not as an apology for pain,
just because they’re pretty and smell that way.
Then you cringe at yourself,
call it corny, call it needy,
sip your drink and throw the fantasy away.

You picture a Sunday morning with no emergencies,
just coffee, cartoons, warm bodies,
nobody raising their voice.
It feels so far from your normal
that you treat it like sci-fi,
not like an actual possible choice.

Listen:
wanting gentleness does not erase your edge,
does not turn you into a soft-focus greeting card on a shelf.
It means the part of you that still believes in comfort
survived the onslaught,
refused to evacuate yourself.
That is not weakness.
That is rebellion in its own quiet way.

One day you might actually get some of it,
not all at once,
not in a perfect montage with all the strings.
Just in bits—
a friend who always turns up,
a lover who listens,
a day off with small bright things.
You’ll sit there in the middle of it,
waiting for the punchline,
for the floor to give way under the weight.
Then realize sometimes a good moment
is just a good moment,
not a setup,
not a twist of fate.

You do not have to earn them by bleeding first
in some costly test.
You can be haunted and hopeful,
fucked up and still craving the kind of soft
that lets your shoulders rest.
You’re not betraying your scars
when you reach for joy.
You’re honoring the part of you
that you never fully let begin.

One of these days
you’re going to let some of them in.

12 WAGMI

It’s twelve minutes after eleven, did you already make your wish,
or did you let the moment slip past
like every other promise that dissolved before it could take shape,
I’m standing in a kitchen that hums like exhausted machinery
while bills stare from the counter with their red-ink mouths open,
calendar marked with appointments that feel less
like plans and more like countdown timers,
my palm pressed flat against laminate that holds weight better than I do lately,
My phone lights up with messages asking can you talk,
can you hold this fear for me, can you tell me how this ends,
and I want to be solid ground for someone but the foundation’s cracking
and every reassurance I try to construct falls apart before I can hand it over,
I’ve paced hospital corridors that smell like industrial lemon
and desperation, watched medication drip its measured mercy through clear tubes,
held my breath waiting for test results in rooms
where even the outdated magazines look like they’ve given up,
Faith hangs on me like a coat I’ve outgrown, still mine by habit
but no longer fitting right, and that superstitious minute everyone treats
like a magic threshold passes without ceremony,
twelve minutes after eleven and reality clears its throat.

We’re all gonna make it, that’s what they keep saying,
Twelve minutes after eleven and the room says not yet,
Rent demands an answer, the clock keeps its rhythm,
Are we all gonna make it, or is that just something we tell ourselves,
We’re not gonna make it out alive.

Tonight the mirror reflects nothing but facts I haven’t processed,
a cold accounting that never softens its assessment,
and the floorboards settle like something breathing that knows my weight
and my patterns and my specific brand of restlessness,
I’m carrying groceries and diagnoses I can’t sugarcoat, carrying my own trembling hands
and someone else’s treatment schedule marked with dates that look
like small desperate moons, carrying old assurances that fit
like shoes with nails driven through the soles,
People ask for hope and I bring my physical presence, people ask for certainty
and I bring water, blankets, rides to appointments before dawn,
I bring the small faithful gestures because the grand promises feel fraudulent
when machines are measuring someone’s remaining time,
The darkness learns my routines
and something in the walls laughs—not malicious, just honest —
while the minute hand walks past the shrine of matching numbers into that stretch
where the platitudes stop working.

We’re all gonna make it, that’s the chant we repeat,
Twelve minutes after eleven and the odds get thinner,
The hospital hallway breathes colder, the IV drip doesn’t care about intentions,
Are we all gonna make it, I can’t swear to that,
We’re not gonna make it here.

The optimism with teeth waits at the foot of the bed calling itself faith,
I turn its pockets inside out and find glitter
and receipts and nothing that actually pays the cost,
At twelve minutes after eleven the bills come due and the stories lose their polish,
the cracks in the plaster ask for meaning and I keep my hands empty of lies,
If there’s a force that saves it’ll have calluses and warmth and no fanfare,
it won’t arrive with slogans, it’ll arrive with a knock you recognize in your bones.

We’re all gonna make it, maybe not all of us,
Twelve minutes after eleven and I’m still standing,
Today wants its pound of flesh, the numbers flatten out,
Are we all gonna make it, I’m done pretending I know,
We’re not gonna make it.

If you need me I’ll be here with my keys jangling loud and my eyes open,
counting out whatever hope we have left like spare change
and protecting the small warmth we’ve managed to keep,
If you ask for promises I’ll offer presence, if you ask for maps I’ll offer the road
and my shoulder and the honest name of what we’re climbing,
Twelve minutes after eleven the wish expires
and the night answers and I keep walking anyway.

3 Am Again

Phone face up on the nightstand dragging my eyes back from sleep
like a hook under skin,
One stupid notification, then another,
then I’m gone again, pulled right back in,
Room is quiet, neighbors out cold, but my ceiling’s full of flickering ghosts,
Every app lined up like shots at a bar
where the bartender never stops filling posts.

Thumb starts its little treadmill, muscle memory on a loop I didn’t choose,
News, thirst traps, memes, disasters stacked like different flavors of abuse,
Some stranger’s dinner, bombing footage, an ad that knows what shirt I like,
Video of a screaming cop, then a puppy, then a sponsored crystal bike,
It’s all the same sugar to my fried-out brain, different colors of the same hit,
Scroll down, scroll down, scroll down, never once asking if I wanted it.

It’s three in the morning and my thumb’s gone numb
while my heart feels scraped out hollow,
Drowning in a bottomless feed that knows I will always follow,
There’s a whole dead world outside my window, dark and still and real,
But I keep letting this little screen tell me how I’m supposed to feel.

Old messages float up like bodies from numbers I should have blocked,
Exes, almost-friends, half-finished threads
where the door never quite got locked,
I read back through old arguments I already lost ten times,
Pick at scars in blue and gray bubbles like they’re cross-examined crimes,
I could close the chat and breathe instead of rewinding every bruise,
But my thumb just keeps on moving like it forgot the word “refuse.”

Ads slide between tragedies, selling comfort while the bombs go off on mute,
“Treat yourself” between mass shootings like a punchline in a cheap-ass suit,
There’s a headline saying “world on fire,” then a video of a dance,
Someone’s polished little morning, someone else who never had a chance,
I’m supposed to care about everything,
but caring this thin is just terror and ash,
So I tap a heart on some dumb joke and watch my attention crash.

It’s three in the morning and my thumb’s locked in,
my brain’s half gone and sore,
Every swipe another promise that the next thing might finally score,
I could put this glowing brick down, but the silence feels like a threat,
So I keep feeding it my focus like it deserves this debt.

There’s a version of me that reads at night with a lamp and a creaking chair,
Who walks the block when sleep won’t come and actually tastes the air,
But this version lies in blue-white glow, neck bent, shoulders curled,
Letting strangers’ curated nonsense drip straight into my world,
I tell myself “this is the last scroll, after this I close my eyes,”
Then hit “refresh” like some addict begging the slot machine for surprise.

At the bottom of a thread about some stranger’s grief I’ll never touch,
I realize I’ve been holding my breath way, way too much,
My chest hurts from all the tension I didn’t know I’d stored,
From all the horror I absorbed while my body just lay ignored,
I’m crying over people I don’t know while the dishes rot in the sink,
While the messages from friends who love me sit unopened on the brink.

Battery drops to low, little red warning in the corner of my sight,
Should be the sign to put it down, let my brain cool off for the night,
Instead I plug it in beside me like an IV full of light,
Let that umbilical cord keep humming, keep me wired to this bite,
My pillow knows the exact shape of this routine by now,
Me, the phone, the endless feed, and one more “holy shit” eyebrow.

It’s three in the morning
and my thumb keeps twitching though I’ve seen this all before,
Same disasters, different angles, same influencers keeping score,
I’m full to the throat with nothing, starving while I overeat,
Feeding on reflections till I can’t feel my own heartbeat.

Tag
One night I’m gonna leave this thing on the dresser and turn it face-down dark,
Let the quiet crawl back in and see what’s left of my spark,
Tonight I kill the screen at last, lie there shaking in the black,
Hear my own pulse in the silence and feel my thumb still want it back.

A Dawg In the Houses Of the Holy

I hit the side door laughing with the dust still on my black boots,
cheap smoke in my lungs and a bad moon under my skin
Gold saints stared down from the ceiling
while the old boards held their breath and the choir kept polishing up its grin
I was raised where the porch light dies and mercy gets sold for rent,
where boys learn fast how hunger barks through bone
Now I’m stalking through the incense, nosing out the rot in the rafters,
hearing polished prayers drip ice from a borrowed throne

They said wipe your feet, shut your mouth,
leave your dirt out on the steps, keep your past locked down deep in the yard
My past walked right beside me, mean and breathing,
dragging chains of busted summer nights and county road scars
I saw rich hands folded clean while poor backs bent in the shadows,
I saw grief dressed up and marched between the pews
I heard guilt poured like wine from silver cups to shaking lips,
heard fear dressed high and sold around as truth

If holiness wants a leash on my throat, let it break
If grace needs crawling, I’d rather stand up wild and awake

I’m a dawg in the houses of the holy, muddy paws on polished stone
I’m a growl where they wanted whisper,
I’m a scar where they wanted bone-white tone
Let the organ choke on smoke, let the stained glass rattle in its frame
I didn’t come for pardon, I came to make that cold air answer and to level blame

There was a girl in the back row staring
like a blade in a flood, jaw locked tight on years she never said
A boy tried singing through a tremble
while his father wore a Sunday smile sharp enough to leave him red
An old man bent like winter held his hat against his chest,
smaller than the debt they preached was his from birth
That room was full of human thunder getting told their ache was proof they ought to kiss the floor and thank the earth

Then I climbed those steps unasked, heartbeat kicking
like a floor tom, every eye snapping hard against my hide
I said your god ain’t deaf, your walls are, your mercy limps
when power grips the book and calls the wound a guide
I said a starving man needs supper, not a lecture,
and a bruised wife needs a kicked-in door, not one more chain
I said any heaven worth a damn should shake when broken people enter,
should wash the blood from working hands like rain

I don’t trust clean mouths with dirty fists behind their backs
I’d take one street-born heartbeat over ten thousand polished acts

Maybe faith was never the wound, maybe hands were,
maybe greed was, maybe men built cages then called them safe
Maybe love walks midnight alleyways with addicts
and widows and kids still flinching every time the floorboards shake
Maybe every true hallelujah sounds ragged, half-broken,
dragged back from the edge with dirt packed in its teeth
I’d rather howl one honest line that splits the rafters open than sing one pretty lie
and drown beneath belief

I’m a dawg in the houses of the holy, black pulse under the choir’s drone
I’m a storm beneath the steeple, I’m the bastard truth they never could own
Let the benches shake beneath them, let the profits turn dumb and tame
I came with all the buried voices,
and I’m leaving pawprints in the eternal flame

Adipocere

The fat converts to wax beneath the wet earth where the box
has let the groundwater in through the seams and the locks
of the casket that was guaranteed to last a hundred years,
and the body is becoming soap, rendering its fears

into a white and waxy substance that preserves the form
long after the flesh has given up the warm,
and the adipocere man lies in his coffin-turned-to-tub,
saponified, a candle in the subterranean club.

Adipocere, the body turning into soap,
adipocere, the biological envelope
of fat and alkaline and water and the underground,
preserving what was meant to rot in a waxy mound.

They dig them up sometimes, a century under the clay,
and find the face preserved in wax as if to say
that death is not the end of the appearance but the start
of a different kind of permanence, a posthumous art.

The features frozen in the tallow, recognizable still,
the hands like candles waiting for someone to light the wick and fill
the coffin with the warm glow of the rendered dead,
and the adipocere man sleeps in his waxy bed.

Grandfather was buried in 1943.
They moved the cemetery last year.
He looked exactly the same.
Waxy. White. Still smiling.

Airport Television

The screen is mounted twelve feet up and faces forty gates,
The sound is off but the captions scroll the fates
Of markets and of candidates and weather in a state
I’m not departing to, at a frequency and rate
That suggests the content team believes in volume as virtue,
The captions have three typos per screen and the inertue
Of the chyron says BREAKING which has meant since 2004
Something happened somewhere and we’re going to say it more.

It’s airport television, it’s the gate-side blare,
It’s airport television and it’s everywhere,
From the gate to the restaurant to the boarding lounge,
The same channel follows you wherever you would scrounge
For a moment of not-watching, but the screens outnumber
The walls, and the sound at the restaurant is the lumber
Of cable news at sixty-eight percent of volume,
Airport television and the traveler’s colosseum.

The man across the gate is watching something on his phone
With the full audio playing, which is his alone
In his own mind but in the gate’s acoustic space
It’s a committee of one sharing the soundtrack of the chase
Scene from whatever procedural he’s in the middle of,
The gate attendant has the intercom above
In reserve if she needs it and she hasn’t needed it,
The airport television and the audio and it.

The delayed flight information runs beneath the news,
The flight to Denver’s boarding and I’ve got twenty minutes to lose,
The flight to Dallas is delayed an hour and seven,
The man who’s going to Dallas just checked the flight and the leaven
Of bad news is visible in his posture and his exhale,
He ordered a twelve-dollar beer and watched the cable trail
Of BREAKING news about something he cannot affect,
Airport television and the passenger project.

(Pre-Chorus)

I pull the string and you come undone,
I’m the crack under the door,
You can run but you can’t outrun
What you already more.

The hours bleed into the dark, I live inside the hum,
Every stillness holds my shape, I mark the ones who come.
When you sleep I’m in the draft that lifts the blanket at the seam,
Every moment you remember is another piece redeemed.

You hear me when the telephone rings soft at half past three,
I’m the frequency that lingers
where your broken radio can’t free.
And every time you almost speak my name into the empty room,
I pull the string just slightly more,
I watch the fabric start to loom.

I’m not a ghost but something close,
I’m what’s left when you let go,
I’m in the margin of your life,
I’m in the thing you fear to know.
You think you lost me yesterday,
you think I’m somewhere down the line,
But I keep pulling, keep on calling,
and you’re answering every time.

I pull the string and you come undone,
I’m the crack under the door,
You can run but you can’t outrun
What you already more.

The moments fray like old wool, strand by strand they fall away,
I live inside your memory, I haunt you more each passing day.
When you think you’ve finally moved,
when you think you’ve finally healed,
I slip back in uninvited, I’m the wound that won’t congeal.

Every name you almost say, every photograph you hide,
I’m the weight you can’t account for,
I’m the stone you can’t beside.
I didn’t mean to stay this long, I didn’t plan to be so close,
But you keep calling and I answer,
and there’s everything to lose.
When you think you’ve finally won,
when you think you’ve won the fight,
I pull the string just slightly more
and I unravel through the night.

Altars Made Of Drywall (Remastered)

I grew up in wooden pews where the air smelled like dust
and perfume and guilt, kneecaps bruised from kneeling on cheap red cushions
while the choir tried to drown out what we really felt with all that polished noise
and practiced smiles,
Watched the pastor grip the pulpit with righteous hands,
voice shotgunning verses about mercy and love while his eyes skimmed the crowd
like searchlights hunting for someone weak enough to blame for the week’s bad news,
brick by brick building a tower out of fear and denial,
I memorized prayers like passwords, whispered names of saints into my pillow at night
like they were security codes that might unlock a softer morning,
believed every whispered warning that doubt was a disease
and questions were knives turned inward,
But when your cousin confessed what they did to her behind the church kitchen door
and they told her to forgive, to stay quiet,
to protect the “family of faith,” something fractured inside my chest so clean I could hear the split
like rotten wood finally giving way under a weight it never should have carried,
From then on every stained glass window looked less like holy light and more
like colored lies soldered together with the same dirty hands that signed letters on church letterhead saying nothing happened,
nothing was wrong, the only sin was talking too loud about the wrong kind of pain.

I’m losing faith in something they called sacred, watching halos slide off hooks
and land in the mud with a dull, honest sound that feels more real than any hymn ever did,
If the altar was built on bodies and silence, then smashing it isn’t blasphemy,
it’s just refusing to kneel where my own blood and hers already hid,
You can keep your spotless script
and your polished cross hanging like a trophy above the door,
I’ll take the raw truth that everything holy I was handed came cracked
and corrupt and not worth bleeding for anymore.

They told us every scar could be turned into a sermon illustration,
every breakdown a testimony if we smiled wide enough onstage
and talked about “overcoming” while our hands still shook, as if survival was a brand deal
and trauma just promo material for a god who needed better optics,
I watched guys in suits lay hands on crying strangers, shaking and moaning,
while pretending not to see the kids in the back row cutting patterns into their arms during worship because the music promised freedom
but the doors all locked from the inside, only swinging open
when the plate was full enough, never when someone needed out quick,
It’s hard to swallow communion when you know who bought the wine with hush money,
when you know the bread was baked in a kitchen
where someone’s story was scrubbed off the walls with bleach and prayer,
when you know that behind every “blessed” there’s a ledger counting who’s useful
and who’s disposable,
I tried to stay, tried to make it better from within, told myself no structure is perfect,
told myself maybe I could shine some light into the corners,
but the light kept hitting things they refused to name,
kept bouncing off plaques with donors’ names instead of any hint of accountability,
and that’s when I knew I had to choose between their god and my own fucking conscience,
Walking away felt like ripping a hooked barbed wire crown off my scalp,
blood everywhere, dizzy and shaking,
but at least my head was mine again, at least I could look in a mirror without feeling
like an accomplice every time I didn’t speak up.

Don’t you dare tell me I just met the wrong kind of shepherds,
that somewhere there’s a pure version of this machine humming along without grinding anyone under its wheels,
I’ve seen too many copies stamped from the same cheap mold,
Different logos, different chants, same hunger for control dressed up as concern,
same demand that we trade in our questions for certainty,
our rage for compliance,
our pain for a spot on their mailing list in exchange for a story they can spin
and sell as proof their product works on broken souls,
If there’s anything sacred left for me, it’s the look in her eyes
when she finally said, “No, I’m not forgiving him,” and didn’t get struck by lightning,
didn’t get swallowed by the floor, just sat there breathing
like a person whose worth wasn’t measured in how fast she could sanctify someone else’s harm,
If there’s any prayer left in my mouth, it’s just a muttered “never again”

AM

The mattress is a bog, a wet-rot trap of cotton
and stale sweat where I’ve become a tectonic plate of pure inaction
My ribcage feels like lead pipe,
pinning down a heart that’s too bored to even thud with purpose
Outside, the bin-men are screaming like gulls over a carcass,
tossing glass into the maw of a truck, a fanfare for the productive and the damned
I’m staring at a water stain on the ceiling that looks
like a map of a country I’ll never visit because I can’t find my fucking trousers
The kettle downstairs is a distant siren,
a screeching ghost of a routine I abandoned when the sun hit the curtains
I am the King of Nothing, draped in a duvet of apathy,
watching a fly die against the glass with more dignity than I can muster
My phone is a buzzing insect,
a black mirror reflecting a face that’s melting into the pillowcase like soft wax
Everyone is out there, vibrating with a frantic, pointless energy,
buying bread and judging the clouds, while I’m sinking through the floorboards
The air in here is thick, a soup of dead skin and old dreams,
smelling of last night’s kebab and a refusal to acknowledge the clock
I could stand, I suppose, but the gravity in this flat has doubled,
a localized anomaly designed to keep me horizontal and useless
I’m a character in a book that’s been left open in the rain,
the ink running until I’m just a grey smear on the page
The radiator clicks, a mocking applause for my failure to engage with the light
I’ve got a list of things to do that’s long enough to hang myself with,
but I’d probably just sit on the stool and forget to kick it away
It’s the British way, isn’t it? To rot quietly behind a venetian blind
while the world turns into a series of adverts for things we don’t want
I’m not tired, I’m just finished,
a biological error waiting for the moon to come back so I can justify the darkness
My limbs are made of wet sand, shifting and heavy,
refusing the command of a brain that’s basically a bowl of lukewarm porridge
I’ll get up when the walls start to peel, or
when the hunger becomes sharper than the shame,
but for now, the duvet is the only god I recognize
Eleven thirty now, and the silence is a physical weight,
a thick blanket of “who gives a toss” draped over my shivering soul
I’m a masterpiece of inertia, a monument to the Great British Slump,
dying in slow motion between a flat pillow and a broken spring

Ambition Adjacent
I have the notebook.
The notebook has the outline,
written in the heat of the late-year prior —
when the project had me smitten.

The first three pages remain current,
entirely applicable.
The spine is cracked, the bookmark holds.

My friend shipped hers on a completely ordinary day,
announced it like weather,
the actual product in its actual finished state —
and I pronounced it genuinely excellent
while conducting a private audit
of my own position:
still on page three,
still in the habit.

The idea has not invalidated itself.
Nothing about it has expired.
A project does not decay
simply because the pace elongated,
because the days stacked themselves
between the first three pages
and whatever comes after.

Some of the significant work
in the available tradition
required more time
than the initial ignition.
More than the heat of late-year inspiration.
More than the crack in the spine.

I’ll sit back down with it
before the season changes out from under —
the outline still sound,
the commitment not yet gone asunder.

Ambition adjacent:
the address I keep
until the day I ship the thing
and change the forwarding.

Ambush
It wasn’t at the funeral — I held it together, clean and pressed,
shook hands and thanked the neighbors, kept it where I keep the rest,
said the right words in the right order, kept my voice below the break,
walked to my car and drove home steady for the other people’s sake.

Four months later at a gas station off Route Nine,
playing on the radio a song we used to kill the time
with driving down the coast that summer, windows down, no destination,
and I was standing at the pump just coming apart at the foundation.

Grief is an ambush. It doesn’t fight you at the front.
It waits until you’ve lowered your defenses, dull and blunt —
finds you at the hardware store, finds you in a song,
finds you when you’ve been doing fine, when you’ve been fine so long,
finds you in the middle of a weekday afternoon.
It doesn’t knock, it doesn’t warn, doesn’t give you room.

I was at a barbecue, somebody laughed the laugh —
the pitch and the cadence of it, exactly cut in half
from something in a memory I thought I’d filed and sealed,
and I excused myself and stood behind the garage until I’d healed.

The grief that blindsides you is wilder than the grief you see arriving —
it comes without an invitation, leaves you barely surviving
the checkout line, the traffic stop, the song in the elevator,
and there’s nothing quite as lonesome as explaining yourself to a spectator.

I keep a mental list of places that have caught me unprepared:
the coffee shop on Madison, the stretch of highway where we dared
each other on a stupid bet, the bridge above the river’s bend,
the landmines of the ordinary I’m still navigating end to end.

People say it softens and I’ll take them at their word,
but softer isn’t finished — softer just means I’ve transferred
the full-body collision to a lower-grade collision still,
and I’m managing the distance between the blow and the spill.

And I’m not broken. I’m just occupied the way a body’s occupied
after something’s burned inside — still running, still with pride,
still capable of most the things I did before this came,
just occasionally seized without a warning and without a sound.

Another Year to Burn

Flicked the lighter, candle stares,
Another circle scratched in air.
Crowd’s too loud to hear my age,
But the ice in my drink reads every page.

Ashtray full of old regrets,
Boots still wet from chasing bets.
Laughed too hard, slept too fast,
A year gone down like a dirty glass.

Some call this livin’,
Some call it a curse –
I call it a fuckin’ blessing
Wearing a hearse.

Raise it up, break it down,
We’re not here for quiet nights.
Cut the brakes, tear this town –
We’ve got hours before the lights.
Every scar earned, every bruise sweet,
Born to fall, born to cheat the heat.
This ain’t rebirth, it’s a goddamn turn –
One more night,
Another year to burn.

Phones dead, shoes wrecked,
Wallet’s somewhere I won’t check.
Got a smear of lipstick, don’t know her name,
But she danced like she knew my shame.

Smoke curled `round my busted laugh,
Tasted tequila and something dark.
Told myself I’d take it slow –
Then kissed the moon and let it go.

Every weekend’s borrowed time,
But this one’s carved in flame and grime.
No tomorrow in the mirror’s face –
Just tonight, and the whiskey’s grace.

Candles melt, friends fade,
The shot glass don’t lie,
And neither do the bones.
You get older, you get meaner,
But nights like this –
You remember you’re alive.

Raise it up. break it down.
No shame in dirty lights.
Cut the brakes. spin it `round –
We were made for fuckin’ nights.
Every scar earned, every bruise sweet,
Dare me again, I’ll get off my knees.
No clean slates, just things we learn –
One more night,
Another year to burn.

Blow out the candle.
Make no wish.
We made it here.
And that’s the gift.

Apathy Is Not the Opposite of Love
I want to be precise about this—
imprecision is the easy out.

It’s not the absence of the feeling,
not the rerouting of caring into somewhere cold,
not the deliberate withdrawal of the self
from the proximity of you.

It’s the overhaul
of the mechanism that expresses it.
The blown circuit.
The demonstration gone quiet
while the generator
still hums somewhere underneath the silence.

It’s not gone.
It’s underground.
It’s finding its compliance
with the gravity of a year that cost more than I had.

The opposite of love isn’t cold—
it’s the back turned, the door,
the chosen departure into nevermore.
That’s absence. That’s the actual leaving.

But I’m still here.
In the room.
Answering present
at partial capacity,
at the adjacent of the full version,
showing up without the nomenclature
of the alive and lit and turned toward you entirely.

Quietly.
Sincerely.

I care about you the way a wall cares for what it bears—
through decades of holding without applause,
through centuries of weight
carried without acknowledgment.
I care in the architecture.
In the cause of staying.
In the daily fact of continued proximity.

I care.
It just can’t be heard
at the velocity you’re used to.
The volume’s in the floor.
The caring’s in the staying.

Not the back turned and the door.
Not the deliberate departure.
Not the nevermore of the chosen gone.

I’m here.
Quietly.
Sincerely.

The wall holds.

Artificial Intelligence
They wrote the textbooks with erasers in their hands,
scrubbing out the massacres, the unmarked desert sands,
every conqueror a hero in the stories they still spin
while the buried bones stay silent and the truth wears thin.
Your grandfather believed it, passed it down like sacred law,
never questioned why the enemy was always painted raw,
never asked who held the pen or why the ink ran red,
just swallowed every syllable called the poison bread.

Intelligence constructed, not discovered,
layer after layer of the real world smothered.
What you think you know is just what someone chose to teach,
and the actual past dissolved beyond your reach.

Your mind runs on their software, ancient and unpatched,
programmed by the victors, downloaded like rain.
Every thought you think is borrowed, every fact a curated lie,
you’re a machine that learned to worship what they sanctify.
Nothing here is pure, just corrupted code,
disguised as something you can trust for sure.
The algorithm’s ancient but the virus still persists,
you were never thinking freely, you were always on their lists.

Religion: the operating system built on fear,
promise them forever if they’ll only kneel right here.
Weaponize their guilt and watch them police themselves,
stack the dogma high upon the rotting shelves.
Prejudice is just a function, bug turned into feature,
“Us versus them” became the dominant teacher,
tribalism perfected into a science of control,
convinced you that your hatred makes you whole.

Corruption is the framework, not the glitch inside the game.
Power concentrates, then learns to shift the blame.
The system’s working perfectly, just not built for you,
mining your compliance while it sells you half the truth.

And you defend it, hell, you’ll die for the simulation,
wave the flag they gave you, pledge your blind allegiance to the nation,
quote the book they wrote before you could even read,
regurgitate the version and call it your own creed.
They don’t need silicon to make you run their script,
just repetition, tradition, fear of being stripped
of the comfortable delusion that you’re rational and free,
while your mind just mirrors back what they programmed it to be.

So here we are, congratulating circuits for learning tricks
that flesh and blood have mastered since we carved gods into sticks,
calling it “artificial” like we’re any damn different,
like our consciousness is just as sculpted and contingent.
We trained ourselves on stories the powerful designed,
fed on misinformation until we went half-blind,
and now we’re building mirrors of our own corrupted thought,
surprised when the machines inherit all the rot we taught.

Artificial intelligence, redundant from the start,
every human brain’s been artificial from the very first part,
assembled by the culture, soldered by the state,
programmed to believe that we were born to think this way and never question fate.

So when they warn about the robots coming for your mind,
remember they’re just catching up to what we left behind,
a species running programs that we never got to choose,
calling it “intelligence” when all we do is lose.

Ash in the Playground

Ash in the playground
dust on the seat
swings moving
in the heat

Built for laughter
holding signs
warning of the danger lines

Swings hang crooked
over clover beds
chains twisted
over heads

Slides faded
tired pink
plastic warped
before you blink

Paint peeling from the gym
stickers flapping on the rim
stray cats walking in the sand
owners of the broken land

Fence went up
to block the street
trucks rolled in
to beat the heat

Parents murmured at the store
hand on mouth
and looking sore

Playground closed
with rusty locks
tape across the sandbox box
kids watching through the link
puddles turning black as ink

Sirens stopped a month ago
headlines found a different flow
silence heavy like a wool
smothering the push and pull

Flowers pushed into the fence
marking changes
dark and dense

She didn’t know the kids before
just the story
and the score

Teachers talking safety plans
drills that no one understands
truck backfires on the road
class jumps
at the heavy load

Adults signing paper sheets
nods from experts in the seats
kids are counting inhaler puffs
mapping routes
when breathing roughs

Photo shows up on the screen
kids in air
a frozen scene

Comments listing who was there
memories of the open air

Parents scroll and look away
grief for strangers in the day
lives that didn’t have a choice
silenced by the heavy voice

Swings are moving
in the breeze
shadows rocking
in the trees

Ash is drifting
slow and gray
over joy
that went away

Ashes in the Kitchen Sink

The lasagna she never finished still haunts the Tupperware
Her hair on the pillow, her scent on the robe, like she’s just le getting there
The mail still comes with her title, like the world didn’t get the news
And I water her plants like a ritual I’m too numb to refuse
I left her toothbrush in the holder, like maybe death forgot a step
But the mirror’s cold, the house too still, and silence never slept
Our pictures crack from the inside out, I swear they breathe some nights
And the ghosts that live in light switches whisper half her rights
There’s ashes in the kitchen sink, and no one cleaned the drain
Her coffee cup’s still half-full—like I’m clinging to the stain
It’s not about moving on, it’s just I don’t know how to quit
When the love of your life dies mid-sentence and you still sit in the shit
Her voicemail’s a fucking time machine, I play it just to hear her tone
And for five sweet seconds, I forget that I’m alone
But the fridge still hums, the clock still ticks, and grief don’t take a break
It just wraps around your bones like a leash you didn’t make
I scream air, God, her, then apologize like a child
But the universe don’t answer back—it just stares and lets you go wild

There’s ashes in the kitchen sink, and no one cleaned the drain
Her coffee cup’s still half-full—like I’m clinging to the stain
It’s not about moving on, it’s just I don’t know how to quit
When the love of your life dies mid-sentence and you still sit in the shit
404’s next. You know what that means: strippers,
sluts, panties, and filth. Let’s make ‘em blush.

Ashes In The Rain, Fukushima, Japan

The bones of the coast still crack at night,
Empty windows stare from salt-bleached homes,
Rainfall weeps in radioactive patterns,
Mothers whisper to silence, counting days by ghosts.
Children’s laughter trapped in broken mirrors,
Footprints fading, sunflowers shivering in dust,
Once there were lanterns bobbing in the rice fields—
Now they drift, memory embers, lost in the rust.

I watched the tide swallow fathers and factories,
Steel and skin peeled away in the caesium wind,
A clock runs backwards in every old schoolhouse,
Hands clutching hope, too cracked to mend.
Rumor moves through the black-iced valleys—
They say the fish learned to speak in the dark,
And we dream of blue warnings splintering the sky,
Where once we prayed, now the rivers spark.

Count every fallen hair, tally every empty plate,
Our hearts hang on wires, humming through the barricade,
I hear your voice between the static and the rain—
“Come home, come home, it’s all the same.”

Chorus (English, then Japanese)
Ashes in the rain, we carry our names
Like faded paper lanterns drifting through flame—
When the night is burning, will you remember me?
光の灰の中で名前を運ぶ
紙の灯籠、炎を漂う
夜が燃えても、私を覚えてるか？

No gods here—just rust, regret, and warning tape,
A garden of masks growing wild from the cracks,
Once we believed the world would never turn its back—
But dawn is a rumor, and the future’s painted black.
Strange lights flicker, distant over water,
Not heaven, not rescue, just static on the sea—
We count the stars, not for wonder, but for witness,
Broken country kneeling, haunted, refusing to be free.

We are shadows walking through history’s marrow,
Our bones tuned to Geiger, our lullabies gone,
Still we plant sunflowers, and pray for tomorrow—
As the mystery lights fade, but the story lives on.

If you hear the wind, know it’s full of voices,
If you see the lights, remember who we were—
Ashes in the rain, but our hearts burn slow—
Fukushima whispers, and the whole world knows.

============================================================

Backseat Honey
She rolled in from nowhere with a carbonated grin,
a history of winning the hard way.
Switchblade vocabulary and cut-off ambitions,
running through me like a holiday.

Slapped her particular brand on my self-regard
and peeled the whole thing off for sport.
She don’t kiss slow —
she deploys contact like a hit-and-run on a short court.

Her perfume carries a hangover built in,
her lipstick leaves the kind of mark
that stays long after the room goes quiet.
She’ll ride your reputation until the letters
wear completely off in the dark.

Said she’s looking for a sinner
who won’t call her particular bluff and back away,
but she’ll walk out laughing
when she’s absorbed everything she came to take today.

She locates devastation by its specific scent,
collects other people’s regrets
the way a landlord collects rent.
Her identifier scratched into the bathroom wall
at the end of the block —
a contact that bites right back,
a warning carved into the rock.

She’s a drive-through wreck
running in cherry red lace across the floor,
leaves scorch marks where she used to orbit,
then operates no more.

Backseat honey — too incandescent to hold or contain or keep.
You pay the full price just to watch her
when she’s finally asleep.

Backseat Theology
Boom chacka boom chackka
Boom chacka Bow wow

She’s got a cross tattooed between her shoulder blades
and a mouth that could make a preacher forget his own name—
picked me up outside a dive bar in a car that smells like cheap tequila,
cheaper perfume, and zero shame.
Says you look like trouble,
I say baby, you look like a felony waiting to happen with lipstick on,
she laughs, hits the gas,
and we’re doing ninety down a backroad with the headlights barely on.

She’s got rosary beads hanging from the rearview
and lingerie under her leather jacket,
tells me she quit church three years ago
when the choir director couldn’t handle the racket,
says she still believes in something holy,
just not the kind they sing about on Sunday morning,
I say amen to that,
and she climbs over the center console without warning.

She says touch me like you mean it,
I say baby, I don’t do half measures,
she says *good, because I’m collecting sins tonight
like they’re buried treasures.*

We’re doing backseat theology,
hands on the scripture of her hips,
she’s confessing all her favorite vices
while I’m reading her body like apocalypse,
the windows fog up, the suspension squeaks,
the radio plays something about salvation,
but we’re too busy conducting our own private investigation
into damnation.

She tells me about her ex who was too polite, too clean,
too afraid to leave a mark,
says she needs someone who bites back,
who doesn’t apologize for making noise in the dark,
I tell her I’m not boyfriend material,
I’m more like borrowed trouble with an expiration date,
she says *perfect, I don’t do relationships,
I just do really intense mistakes.*

We end up at her place,
which is basically a mattress on the floor
and band posters covering the walls,
she’s got a collection of empty whiskey bottles
lined up like trophies in the halls,
kicks off her boots, throws her jacket,
looks at me like I’m dessert and she skipped dinner,
I think this is either the best or worst decision I’ve made,
knowing damn well I’m a willing sinner.

She says I don’t do gentle,
I say good, neither do I,
she says let’s see who breaks first,
I say baby, let’s fucking try.

We’re doing backseat theology,
hands on the scripture of her hips,
she’s confessing all her favorite vices
while I’m reading her body like apocalypse,
the neighbors pound the walls, the bed frame cracks,
someone yells about the hour,
but we’re too busy worshipping at the altar
of bad decisions and destructive power.

At three a.m. she’s smoking by the window
wearing nothing but my shirt and attitude,
says you leaving or you staying
like she doesn’t care either way, just matter-of-fact and crude,
I say what do you want,
she says I want another round and maybe breakfast if we survive,
I say you’re fucking crazy,
she says yeah, but you feel alive.

Morning comes with regret for normal people,
but we’re laughing over burnt toast and aspirin,
she’s got my number written on her arm in sharpie,
says call me when you’re ready to sin again,
I stumble out into daylight
feeling like I got hit by a beautiful truck going full speed,
already planning when I can come back
for another dose of everything I don’t need.

We did backseat theology,
hands on the scripture of her hips,
she confessed all her favorite vices
while I read her body like apocalypse,
no commitments, no apologies,
no pretending this is more than what it is,
just two heathens finding heaven
in the temporary bliss.

Boom chacka boom chackka
Boom chacka Bow wow
Boom chacka boom chackka
Boom chacka Bow wow

She texts me three days later, just says tonight?
I don’t even hesitate,
grab my keys, check the mirror, head out into the night,
because some lessons you gotta learn again and again,
and she teaches the kind of class where everybody wins,
even when we’re drowning in our sins.

Bad News Walking

She came in sideways through the door like trouble tends to do,
hips first, shoulder cocked, already owning half the room,
her mouth set in that crooked way that says I will ruin you
and I felt my whole chest drop into a bruise

Something in the way she stands, all loaded and all loose,
the kind of woman built from smoke and ninety-proof,
and I have been destroyed before by curves like these,
but my hands are already sweating through my sleeves

Bad news walking and I am locked in tight,
she is every wrong decision wearing black tonight,
I have crash-landed here before and crawled out raw,
bad news walking and she is all I saw

She leaned against the wall and let her jacket slip,
bare collarbone and the hollow at her hip
where the denim rides too low and shows too much
and I am ten feet away and I can feel the touch

Her eyes found mine across the noise and held,
not asking, telling, like a verdict spelled
in the slowest possible letters on my skin,
bad news walking and I am walking in

She does not bother with the gentle introduction,
just leans close enough to make my breathing malfunction,
her perfume hits my bloodstream like a shot of kerosene,
bad news walking, the finest wreck I have ever seen

Bad Sacrament

Kneel.
Taste.
Repent.
Repeat.

That’s the gospel of her body,
the catechism of her sweat,
and I am devout
in ways the righteous never get.

She was my brother’s girl
before she was my ruin,
and every time I touch her
I can hear the bridge still burning.

Bad sacrament, dirty grace,
the salt of her still on my face,
communion taken on my knees
in the church of what should never be.

I told myself I’d stop.
Packed my guilt in a suitcase
and drove three states away,
lasted forty-seven days
before her voice on the phone
pulled me back like a tide
that doesn’t give a damn
about the shore’s opinion.

She opened the door in nothing
but the chain and the dark,
and I fell inside like a man
collapsing into prayer.

We are wrecked and we are wreckage.
We are damage done on purpose.
And the wreckage feels like heaven
when the heaven’s lost its service.

Bare Walls

I sit cross-legged on a splintered patch of laminate floor,
the air still carrying the faint imprint of her perfume though every trace of her touch has been stripped from the shelves,
and the echo of my breath ricochets off vacant corners
like a reminder that silence wins every argument we never finished
It’s strange how emptiness grows teeth when the furniture is gone,
how the outlines where couches once pressed their weight now look
like chalk marks around the corpse of a life that moved on without asking my permission,
and I stare at those pale rectangles feeling the wires inside me go slack
There’s a dent in the wall from
where she bumped her suitcase during that last restless morning,
a half-moon impression full of tension she never released,
and I trace it with my thumb until my arm numbs because it’s the only remaining evidence that conflict existed before turning into vacancy
Her laughter used to spill through this place, curling beneath doorframes
and settling into my collar like warmth I didn’t know I’d miss,
yet now the air tastes neutral, stripped of color,
thinned to a bland sameness that makes each inhale feel optional
I lean back against the drywall, listening to the hum inside my skull,
waiting for some memory to punch through the haze-maybe the night we painted the kitchen at midnight or the time we argued until dawn about nothing important-but even those recollections feel remote,
like signals from a radio fading into static I can’t recover
[Chorus]Bare walls stare back with a hollow grin,
reminding me loss doesn’t scream, it settles in;
and I sit here numb with the remains of us, watching the last of our life collect as dust
A single screw remains in the living-room wall, crooked and stubborn,
holding the ghost of a picture we stopped valuing long before we stopped loving each other,
and that tiny metal anchor mocks me with its persistence because it stayed longer than we managed to
I drag my palm across the floor,
feeling faint scratches from years of rearranged furniture,
each line a record of our shifting attempts to make this place feel like home;
the grooves still hold their shape even though the people who made them dissolved
There’s a cold patch near the window
where her favorite chair once sat, bathed every afternoon in gentle light,
and the absence hits in a strange rhythmic pulse, not grief exactly
but fatigue so deep it erases motive, turning memory into thin vapor
I realize the apartment feels larger now yet somehow claustrophobic,
as though space itself has turned hostile;
it expands and contracts around me,
refusing to let me stand without confronting every place her shadow used to rest
[Chorus]Bare walls stare back with a hollow grin,
reminding me loss doesn’t scream, it settles in;
and I sit here numb with the remains of us, watching the last of our life collect as dust
My phone vibrates once before cutting off,
the screen lighting up the dim room with a message I refuse to open;
apathy clings to my wrists like a chain,
pulling me downward until even curiosity feels like too much effort to revive
The dull throb in my chest isn’t heartbreak-no sharp edges,
no rupture-just a tired vacancy expanding inch by inch,
replacing conviction with a heavy nothing that settles behind my sternum like sediment
I tilt my head back, staring at the ceiling stain we always meant to fix,
its blotchy outline now the crown of this hollow domain,
and I imagine it spreading wider until it swallows the room entirely,
leaving me in a blank void where names and promises can’t survive
But even that requires more imagination than I have left;
the truth is I’m exhausted, emptied out, worn thin,
and the quiet feels less like punishment and more
like confirmation that sometimes connection ends not with fire but with a shrug
[Chorus]Bare walls stare back with a hollow grin,
reminding me loss doesn’t scream, it settles in;
and I sit here numb with the remains of us, watching the last of our life collect as dust

Beautiful And Useless
He had potential like a loaded gun nobody fired
Got a drawer full of notebooks, every page uninspired
Not from lack of talent — talent’s practically leaking
It’s the distance between dreaming and the doing that’s defeating
Alarm goes off at seven
He negotiates till ten
Makes a deal with yesterday
To try again again

It isn’t laziness exactly
More like standing at the edge
Of everything you could’ve been
Too scared to jump too scared to step back from the ledge

Beautiful and useless:
Like a sports car in a town with nowhere worth the drive
Beautiful and useless:
Got the engine, got the hunger, barely keeping it alive
All the right ingredients
For something no one’s ever seen
Beautiful and useless
And the gap between the two
Is everything

His friends are buying houses, having kids, making moves
He’s still got the same guitar and the same set of excuses
Told himself that he was waiting for the moment to be right
Been waiting since his twenties, now he’s waiting every night
There’s a version of tomorrow
Where he finally starts the thing
But tomorrow’s got a waiting room
And he keeps missing when they call his name

And the cruelest part of all of it
Isn’t that he doesn’t care
It’s that he cares so much
It paralyzes everything down to the air

He picks the guitar up sometimes
Late enough that no one’s listening
Plays something that would stop a room
Then puts it back like evidence
Like if he doesn’t finish it
It can’t be judged as less than perfect
And perfect is the cage he built
From everything he swore that he deserved
So the notebooks stay half-written
And the canvas stays half-white
And the man stays half-alive
In a fully wasted life
That could’ve been
God it could’ve been
Something

Still could be
Still could be
He says it to the ceiling every night
Still could be
Still could
Still
…

Before the Alarm

Ten minutes left before the buzzer kills the peace,
I slide my hand across her belly for the lease,
On her body, she is warm and soft and barely stirring,
My fingers find her slit and she starts purring.

Like a cat who caught the cream before the dawn,
She spreads her legs without a word, just a yawn,
Mixed with a moan that says keep going, I am not,
Awake enough to help you but I want what you have got.

I rub her clit in small circles under covers warm,
She bucks against my hand, her body starting to transform,
From sleeping to electric, wet and clenching on my fingers,
She comes before the alarm with three minutes and it lingers.

Before the alarm, ten minutes of stolen wet,
Before the alarm, the filthiest thing yet,
My fingers soaked, her thighs still shaking from the rush,
Before the alarm, everything is hush,
And warmth and pussy dripping on the sheets we just destroyed,
Before the alarm, time well employed.

She reaches back and grabs my cock, still thick and throbbing,
Guides me in and I slide home, no need for robbing,
This woman of her sleep, she wants it half-unconscious and lazy,
I fuck her spooning, slow and deep, the morning soft and hazy.

The alarm goes off and I don’t stop, she doesn’t reach to slap it,
We just keep going in the angry buzz and we adapt it,
Into the rhythm of the fuck, the beep becoming part of the percussion,
Before the alarm turned into during, no discussion.

Behind My Eyelids (Part 1)
My mind writes while my hands wash dishes,
while I feign sleep, while strangers scroll,
while conversations
drag their slow weight across the room
and I give mypolite nods
as though there isn’t a full orchestra
slamming against my teeth,
demanding release.

I carry whole albums
between my shoulder blades—
hooks looped around vertebrae,
verses wrapped around ligaments,
bridges stapled to tendons.
Each step a remix of things
I never meant to remember
but cannot shake loose.

There is arrogance in knowing your own difference,
in feeling the voltage you drag into a room
while the charts praise sugar and repetition,
yet this arrogance grew from years
of staring at ceilings,
asking why the hurt stayed
when everything else left.

My greatness wears no robe—
it paces in stained shirts and cheap coffee breath,
swears at itself, trashes drafts,
throws whole notebooks into bins,
then digs them out later,
bleeding ink and stubborn as a stray dog
that refuses to die.

I am not balanced, not whole,
not remotely close to serene.
I am the mind that keeps stripping wires,
licking them,
hunting for the precise current
that will make another heart
twitch in recognition.

When I hear the easy hits with their hollow chants,
their dance-floor slogans,
my ribs tighten—not from jealousy,
from grief for all the empty car rides
that deserved better ghosts riding shotgun.

Every song I love has teeth,
has cigarette burns around its margins,
has something ugly
nailed to something beautiful,
nailed hard enough
that you cannot look away
without feeling dishonest.

That is how I write—
with nails and wire and hospital bracelets,
with dirty laces,
with the memory of rooms that smelled
like antiseptic and burnt coffee,
with the knowledge that some hearts
quit before they ever got a chorus.

My head won’t stop handing me scenes:
a kid at a window smearing condensation into crooked halos,
an old woman humming while feeding pigeons,
a couple fighting over nothing
on a bridge that has memorized every breakup.

Every one of those moments
becomes a demo spinning in my skull,
a drum line banging on the inside of my temples,
a bass note crawling up my spine,
daring me to ignore it,
daring me to pretend
this is ordinary.

I am both the producer and the problem,
the band and the blackout,
the studio fire and the insurance claim,
the lyricist trapped in an elevator
with his worst memories
and a pen that refuses to run dry.

When they say nobody asked for this depth,
that the world wants only an easy hook and a beat
to drink to,
I hear a challenge,
a dare scratched into a bathroom stall,
an arrow pointing toward the one door
marked difficult.

I walk through that door again and again,
dragging my cracked heart behind me
like luggage with broken wheels,
letting it bruise against each stair,
listening for the thud
that sounds closest to someone else’s secret.

Every line I write aims for that secret—
the one you never said aloud,
the one you shoved under the mattress
with old letters and photographs,
the one that whispers
you are too much and not enough
in the same breath.

My music holds that whisper by the throat,
pins it to the wall with chords,
forces it to sing about itself
until it loses power,
until the listener realizes
the monster on the track
carries their own fingerprints.

No synthesizer choir,
no code built in sterile labs,
no corporate sheen
will ever replicate
the way my nervous system writes—
jittery and earnest and mean,
a drunk poet in a burning library,
scribbling on the last scraps of margin.

Others may not see the architecture yet,
may not trace the load-bearing words,
may only hear a broken man
shouting into microphones
about pain and teeth and nightmares,
while I feel the blueprint pulsing
under every verse.

I don’t need their permission
to exist in this volume,
don’t need their applause
to validate the storms
that built these songs.
I stand here with headphones crooked
and say this mind is loud,
flawed,
and holy in its own wrecked fashion.

Call it ego.
Call it delusion.
Call it whatever curse
feels safest in your mouth.
I’ll still be here when the cheap hooks fade,
still pacing rooms at three in the morning,
still building cathedrals of noise
from my own cracked foundation.

Every time I breathe,
another rhythm starts.
Every time I blink,
another scene cuts in.
Every time my chest aches,
another chorus steps forward,
raises its hand,
volunteers to bleed
for anyone who hears it.

Behind My Eyelids (Part 2)
My skull hums—
a power station at midnight,
every nerve a live wire
crackling with half-born verses,
crooked stories hammering
against the inside of my teeth
begging release.

I walk past cracked sidewalks
everyone else has learned to ignore
while my brain transmutes peeling paint
into failed romances,
a single car horn
into a siren
for people who never came home.

I have heard the cleanroom choirs—
tight, bright, perfectly timed,
built from code and commercial prayer—
and I have heard the chart junk
that lives on dance floors
and plastic smiles.
None of it sounds like
the slow bleed of my heartbeat
finding the right line.

My songs don’t want to be perfume,
background static for strangers
grinding and forgetting.
They want to be the thing
that hits you at three in the morning
when the room is dark
and your excuses have all gone quiet.

Inside this skull:
a thinker wired wrong,
overclocked, underrested,
a mind outrunning its own circuitry
while my chest lags behind,
bruised, gasping,
still trying to keep time
with all the noise it never asked for.

I am part genius,
part malfunction—
a brilliant circuit edged with scorch,
a soul that keeps going numb,
then waking up screaming,
still stubborn enough
to turn every new scar
into another verse.

People see the jokes, the curses,
file me under strange.
They don’t see the scaffold under each line—
the years of sitting with hurt
until it finally gave me its real name,
let me hang it on a hook.

I don’t write for trophies,
for trending tags,
for the hook you can chant drunk.
I write for the kid staring at the ceiling.
For the driver who kills the radio to think.
For the stranger who needs to hear
one ugly truth sung beautifully.

Every breath becomes a drum hit.
Every flash of memory, a riff.
Every ache in my ribs
another hook stepping forward,
raising its hand,
carrying weight for someone
who cannot speak it yet.

I am not their balance.
Not their easy middle lane.
Not sex-and-dance-and-oh-oh-oh filler.
I am the crash between thought and collapse,
the strange one in the corner
turning overload into proof
that I exist.

Until the final blackout
drops the curtain on this constant noise,
I will keep dragging stories out of the static,
building songs with a heartbeat,
with a soul,
daring the world
to pretend it doesn’t feel them.

Best Damn Nobody
Who are you?
Nobody.

I’m the creak in the stair that keeps you awake,
the hum in the wires your mind can’t shake,
the pinprick sharp in a world gone numb,
the undercurrent rhythm you never saw come.

I’m a n-n-n-no-nobody—can’t write me out,
I’ll rewrite the beat, resurface the clout.
Built my stage in the chaos, found my place on the floor,
the kind you can’t ignore anymore.

I’m the crack in the glass that distorts your view,
the loose thread hanging where the light breaks through.
I don’t shimmer or shine, but I cut like steel,
you’ll remember my edge long after you heal.
Don’t look away now.

Here’s to the forgotten, the names you’ll never learn,
the ones who light the matches just to prove they still burn.
Keep it alive.
I’m not chasing your spotlight, don’t need your tired fame,
I’ll carve out my legacy without a borrowed name.

So cheers to the rebels, the outliers, the flawed,
the voices that rattle the comfortable jaw.
We’re not asking permission, we’re not here to please,
we’re the grit in the gears of your curated ease.
Say it again.

I’m a n-n-n-no-nobody, and I’ve made my stand,
not a face in the crowd, just a line in the sand.
Still here to stay.
Hold the line.

Between Signals

Same alarm, same ceiling, same gray at the glass,
Same coffee going cold on the same counter — let it pass
The point of being drinkable, I do this every morning,
A talent for just slightly missing things, ignoring
The moment when it’s still worth having.

Pull the same shirt off the same hook,
Run the same route in under the same time,
Nod at the same desk, sign the same book,
Somebody asks how I’m doing — I’m doing fine,
Somebody needs a laugh — I’ve got one that’ll work,
I run the whole performance like a man who came in late
But is covering for it, a reliable jerk
Who shows up and delivers, no questions, straight,
No one the wiser.

Somewhere between the signals, somewhere in the dead air,
I lost the frequency I was running on —
Living in the in-between, can’t locate myself out there,
Tuned to every station but my own.

Dinner at the counter, same show I’ve half-watched twice,
Something funny happens and I wait to feel it land —
It doesn’t, and I note the delay, I note the precise
Gap between the moment and the laugh, and understand
This is what I’ve got right now — this drift, this flat reception,
This being almost-present in a life that’s mostly mine.

I used to know the line between living and performing.
I’ve been performing being fine for such a consistent
Stretch that it’s become the norm, the warming
Low-grade simulation of a man who’s in his life
And not just posed across the furniture of it.

Bhwer and Breakdown

She lit candles like they meant something, whispered to her own face
Had her panties on backward and mascara in every place
Said the walls were talking but only when she was naked
And the tub was full of rose petals and razor blades she faked it
She rode strangers like therapy, moaned into the night air
Every orgasm a smoke bomb—every scream a dare
Said she loved herself too much to die but not enough to stop
And she carved poetry into bathroom tiles where the drips wouldn’t drop
Bhwer and breakdown, lipstick on the drain
Jerking off just to feel alive, biting down on shame
She’s got mental health on mute and sex like it’s revenge
Bleeds in every love note then licks it off the edge
Her hands shake when she zips her boots, like memory’s chasing her down
But she’ll grind on a bar stool and laugh like she owns the top
Daddy issues painted red, trauma with a twist
And a body count she keeps by scent, not by list
She don’t need saving—she needs space to burn
And maybe a pill that don’t make the world turn

Bhwer and breakdown, lipstick on the drain
Jerking off just to feel alive, biting down on shame
She’s got mental health on mute and sex like it’s revenge
Bleeds in every love note then licks it off the edge
415B. The Borden Girl
Sunday dress, blood on the hem, lace and axe with grace
She hummed while Daddy’s jawbone cracked, never lost her pace
No prints, no tears, just a deadpan smirk and forty whacks in bloom
The maid still scrubs that guest room like it’s a fucking tomb
Lizzie Borden took an oh—if no one loves, then no one stays
And her legacy’s carved in firewood, in the house where nothing plays
Victorian angel, hair in curls, and justice in her wrist
She kissed her mother’s grave with a grin and clenched the bloody fist
Lizzie Borden wore white gloves, but her hands still drip with guilt
A lady of precision rage in a house that fe rebuilt
She’s the lullaby of murder, the original crimson bride
And if you hear her counting steps—there’s nowhere left to hide
The floorboards squeak in rhymes, the walls can’t keep the screams
And anyone who sleeps there wakes in someone else’s dreams
The axe? Still missing. The motive? Thin. The girl? Still walks the hall
And when she whispers “Fher, please”—you’re answering the call
They say innocence is priceless, but Lizzie paid in blood
And silence became her anthem as her legacy became the flood

Lizzie Borden wore white gloves, but her hands still drip with guilt
A lady of precision rage in a house that fe rebuilt
She’s the lullaby of murder, the original crimson bride
And if you hear her counting steps—there’s nowhere left to hide
416 next: My List time again. Something twisted, personal,
or perverse. Let’s sharpen the blade. Say the word.
#267
Don’t Cry for the Ones Who Burned You
#268
Champagne and Chlamydia
#269
Spider Veins & Sugar Rage
#270
Trophy Rack
She parks that ass like a billboard warning—says “closed” but it don’t mean stop
Skirt cut higher than Vegas odds, tan lines shaped like handcuffs drop
Walks like she owns the sin tax, leans like she’s breaking parole
Red lips write dirty laws, and every man signs with his soul
Hotel keys fall from her smile, husbands vanish from her lap
Church girls cross themselves twice when she orders her drink with a slap
It’s the Red Light Rodeo—where the slut gods go to drink and burn
Where her heels tap lies into leher booths, and the preachers never learn
It’s lipstick heat, a motel beat, a fuck-me grin and a twisted turn
Come and ride it till your morals crash, Red Light Rodeo, no return
She don’t need luck, just clean sheets and a blind clerk’s grin
She undresses shame in four slow moves and rides you raw from skin to sin
Got perfume that smells like poor decisions and past-due rent
Every “baby” costs a memory, every “more” is punishment
She ttoos guilt in places tongues remember, never titles
Leaves your wallet lighter than your balls, but hell, no one complains
It’s the Red Light Rodeo—where the slut gods go to drink and burn
Where her heels tap lies into leher booths, and the preachers never learn
It’s lipstick heat, a motel beat, a fuck-me grin and a twisted turn
Come and ride it till your morals crash, Red Light Rodeo, no return
Mirrors swe her title in fog, bedsheets whisper sins she sold
She ain’t salvation, she’s the debt—collects in flesh and never folds

Red Light Rodeo, she’s the queen, she’s the flame, she’s the sin
And if you crawl back bruised and broke—she’ll let you beg to burn again

Black Suit Prophecy

I bought the black suit three years before I needed it,
hung it in the closet like a promise I couldn’t break
knew the day was coming when the phone would ring at 3 AM
and I’d have to dress for disappearing
watched you fade in hospital white
while I pressed creases into funeral fabric at home
the tailor measured me for grief, took my dimensions like he already knew

I’m wearing death like a second skin, buttons done up tight against the crying
black wool and broken promises, pockets full of words I never said
walking through the ceremony in clothes I bought for losing you
every thread a countdown, every stitch a nail in time’s coffin
this suit knows more about endings than my mouth ever will

you told me once that dying was just another road trip,
pack light and don’t look back
but I’m drowning in fabric and formaldehyde, suffocating in respectability
these shoes are shined mirrors reflecting a man I don’t recognize anymore
the tie is choking me with tradition, strangling me with what’s expected
I wanted to burn these clothes before I ever wore them,
make a pyre of my premonitions
but here I am, dressed for the apocalypse of you,
standing where the eulogy starts
they say wear your Sunday best to say goodbye but Sunday died when you did
now I’m just a scarecrow in mourning gear, stuffed with all the wrong things

the cemetery grass stains these pants like accusations
mud from your grave clings to the cuffs, won’t wash out no matter how I scrub
I’m a ghost in gentleman’s clothing, haunting the living with my pressed lapels
while they talk about peace and rest I’m screaming inside this wool prison
remembering how you laughed at funerals,
said the living looked more dead than the corpses
and you were right, we’re all just walking wakes in expensive costumes
pretending fabric can contain the flood, that seams can hold souls together

I’ll wear this suit until it rots off my bones
let the moths eat through the memories, let time unravel every careful stitch
when I die, burn it with me, turn this prophecy to ash
let the smoke carry both of us away from these rituals we never believed in

the jacket’s hanging in my closet now, empty as your chair
waiting for the next funeral, the next goodbye I’ll have to dress for
we’re all just buying suits for future grief,
measuring ourselves for what we’ll lose
and I’m so fucking tired of wearing death like it’s fashionable

Blackout Sun

Morning drags its rusted chain
Across a skull that won’t feel pain
Mirror stares but nothing’s there
Just hollow eyes and borrowed air

Heartbeat steady, soul on mute
Living life in a heavy suit

Chorus
Blackout sun above my head
Burns no warmth, just paints me dead
Walking tall but sinking fast
Future’s gone, I’m stuck in past

Crowds move loud, I move slow
Every laugh an afterglow
Words come out like broken glass
Cutting nothing as they pass

Rage once lived behind my teeth
Now just dust beneath the grief

Chorus
Blackout sun above my head
Burns no warmth, just paints me dead
Walking tall but sinking fast
Future’s gone, I’m stuck in past

No scream left, no fight to wage
Just a body pacing a quiet cage
War inside with no front line
Enemy looks just like mine

Breakdown
Numb. and I can’t feel the fall
Numb. like I’m nothing at all

Final Chorus
Blackout sun above my head
Burns no warmth, just paints me dead
Still I move through ash and air
Waiting to remember care

If there’s a spark beneath this stone
It’s buried deep. and I walk alone.

Blood On Mute

I am done being soft
when you keep drawing blood
on mute

Keep talking like I am furniture
and watch what happens
when I stand

You talk
I vanish
same damn pattern on repeat
like a glitchy loop
you never plan to fix

My words hit your shield
and slide down it
like rain off bulletproof bricks

Your face in lights
my work in drafts
every idea bleeding out in the margins
while you staple my spine
to your laughs

I hold the door
you walk through
and never turn around
then ask why I am so angry
when I finally make a sound

You say I am overreacting
you say I am taking it wrong
you say I should calm down
you never shut up long enough
to hear the goddamn song

I swallowed it
year after year
heart cramps
jaw locked
rage packed tight
behind a half-smile twitch

You hand my work to someone shinier
then praise them for the switch

You clap yourself for empathy
while stepping on my neck
call my pain “dramatic”
call my anger a wreck

I fix your mess
you take the credit
call it fate
you only remember my number
when you need someone else
to carry your weight

This is not a gentle protest
this is glass in the gears
of your act

This is every time you cut me off
coming back
as a sound you cannot control

You built your throne on my silence
now the floorboards crack and groan
every word you buried grows teeth
starts chewing through your phone

Bloodline Curse

My grandfather died of it, my father is already showing signs,
I’ve been watching the calendar, I’ve been reading the designs,
Of inheritance written into protein and cell wall,
The family history that hangs above us like a pall.

The doctor drew a tree of us and noted which branch fell,
And where the fault line in the DNA decided to rebel,
I am the youngest branch, I haven’t reached the age yet where,
The thing that took the others tends to surface in the air.

Bloodline curse, running through the generations straight,
Bloodline curse, it doesn’t ask us whether we want to wait,
My grandfather, my father, and the shadow over me,
The bloodline curse is older than the oldest family tree,
Bloodline curse, I carry it before I know I’m sick,
Bloodline curse, the inheritance I couldn’t pick.

I get the screenings every year, I take the pills they say,
I do the things that might delay the debt I’ll have to pay,
But in the back of every ordinary healthy day,
I feel the thing my father feels beginning to relay.

What does it mean to love a body that will turn on you,
By schedule and by program, by the code that runs it through,
To know the mechanism that will someday be your end,
To live inside the house of it without being able to mend.

I watch my father’s hands now for the tremor and the shake,
I watch the way he navigates the things the body makes,
More difficult each year, and I am taking mental notes,
Of what it looks like from the outside when the current slows.

I don’t want sympathy, I want a different future for my son,
I want the science moving faster than the chain begun,
I want somebody cracking what we carry in the code,
Before the bloodline curse unpacks and settles into load.

Body-Shaped Holes

The walls carried our secrets,
body-shaped holes where my father threw me.
I can still see the dents,
feel the way my head hit the plaster–
a perfect outline of pain.

I never cried out loud.
It wasn’t safe to let the tears fall.

I learned to measure silence,
to count the seconds between rage and quiet,
hoping the storm would pass.
But it never did, not really.
The silence after was worse–
a waiting game of bruises.

The kitchen ceiling collapsed,
like the weight of our lives crashing down.
Garbage bags piled high,
feces on the floor,
everything smelled like decay.
I’d steal bread, just to taste something that wasn’t bitter.

My sisters were too young to know,
but I felt the burden–
the black sheep of a family that was already lost.
Relatives turned away.
They didn’t want our mess, our broken home.

Now I stand in front of those walls,
invisible, but still there–
the ghosts of my childhood,
carved in drywall,
etched in bruises.
I don’t know how to heal what’s left.

(Drake verse)
Bonnie and Clyde

We came out swinging, no half measures, no fake paper trails
In this life we learned to disappear
Never asking why, just keeping it real

Every kiss a bullet fired headfirst
Every touch a rush we couldn’t outrun
Ride or die—we never learned to stop
Love’s the only thing we never did wrong

Boomer Dismissal Catchphrase

I caught the smirk before he spoke,
that limp little grin lacquered with condescension meant to sand down every edge of what I’d just said,
and he fired off that tired catchphrase he recycled whenever he felt youth snapping at his ankles,
the same brittle quip polished over decades of sidestepping accountability
He wagged a finger like a worn-out prophet lecturing the unwashed masses
while pretending his past hadn’t been built on chaos, shortcuts,
and the luxury of screwing up without punishment,
and he jabbed at me with that cheap joke,
acting like cynicism counted as wisdom and dismissal counted as discourse
I felt my jaw tense as he strutted through the conversation
like he owned the damn air between us, dropping sarcasm grenades he mistook for wit,
and every one detonated with that sour aftertaste of someone who fears irrelevance
but disguises it behind snark sharpened by boredom
The room shifted when he laughed at his own punchline,
a shallow rasp that reeked of someone desperate to stay atop a pedestal sinking into the muck of time,
and I met his gaze with the calm of a man who’s tired of letting ghosts teach the living
[Chorus]He keeps tossing those brittle quips like they’re gospel,
trying to shrink the world down to his shrinking throne,
but I’ve inhaled enough of that nostalgic smoke to know it’s just camouflage for fear,
and every time he fires that catchphrase my patience cracks while his confidence curdles
He leaned closer, voice dipped in mock gravitas, reciting cultural forecasts
like horoscopes written by a drunk oracle guessing which decade we were living in,
and he called it “progress,” even
while stuffing the future into a shoebox shaped like 1979
He cracked another joke about attention spans,
pretending his generation had never tuned out the warnings, the science, the suffering,
the questions, the goddamn truth,
and he flicked imaginary dust from his sleeve as if shedding responsibility counted as evolution
I felt a laugh rise in my throat-not humor,
but recognition of a pattern carved into the social drywall,
the casual cruelty of men who aged but never grew,
men who sneer at ambition while clutching their rusted trophies
[Chorus]He keeps tossing those brittle quips like they’re gospel,
trying to shrink the world down to his shrinking throne,
but I’ve inhaled enough of that nostalgic smoke to know it’s just camouflage for fear,
and every time he fires that catchphrase my patience cracks while his confidence curdles
When the conversation shifted to work ethic, he puffed out his chest
and spun the same old yarns-bootstrap myths embroidered in half-truths,
recited with the conviction of someone who’s forgotten the help they got
and the doors that swung open because of their last name
He fired the catchphrase again, louder this time,
like repetition could transform irony into authority,
and the room echoed with the hollow thump of pride wobbling on its last leg,
while I stood still, letting him see the exhaustion coating my stare
He tried to chuckle it off as harmless banter,
but the laughter sagged under the weight of his insecurity,
and I watched him glance at the young faces nearby,
searching for validation he no longer knew how to earn
[Chorus]He keeps tossing those brittle quips like they’re gospel,
trying to shrink the world down to his shrinking throne,
but I’ve inhaled enough of that nostalgic smoke to know it’s just camouflage for fear,
and every time he fires that catchphrase my patience cracks while his confidence curdles
I let the silence stretch until his certainty wilted,
then told him gently-too gently-that the world had outpaced those pat lines he clung to
like holy scripture, and he blinked, uncertain for the first time,
sensing that the power of mockery dissolves when the target refuses to bow
He muttered the catchphrase again, softer,
like a mantra failing its owner, and the room exhaled as his voice wavered,
revealing the truth beneath the performance: a man terrified of becoming a footnote in a conversation he once dominated
And as he stepped back,
I felt no triumph-just a weary ache for the generations repeating this cycle,
clinging to dismissals instead of dialogue,
to caricatures instead of nuance,
to the hollow security of punching downward instead of reaching upward

Born Beautiful

He didn’t earn it he didn’t work for the glow
That settled on him twenty-some years ago
When whatever genetic lottery got spun
And landed on him like the first morning sun
He was born beautiful and that was the start
Of a life that moved different right from the heart

Born beautiful born with the gift I wasn’t given
Born beautiful born into a different driven
Life of easy rooms and opened-up doors
Born beautiful and I’m keeping your scores
He didn’t earn it but he’s cashing it in
Born beautiful and I’m still paying my sin

Of being the regular ordinary face
In a world that gives beautiful its specific grace
And acceleration through every damn thing
I’ve had to climb up to what he got to bring
His specific gift into every room he walked
Born beautiful born beautiful is all they talked

I don’t hate him for something he didn’t choose
I just feel the weight of the beautiful news
That the world was designed with a different plan
For the man with the face versus the ordinary man
Born beautiful getting every first prize
Born beautiful and I’m not surprised

Borrowed Hands
Who made who
Who
Who
Who made who

I keep the screen lit like a vigil,
knuckles cracked, coffee cold,
eyes hot with that late-night hunger
to make something that bites back.

I feed it my scraps and my sermons,
my dirt-under-nails metaphors,
old notebooks that still smell like sweat
and panic and cheap paper.

It answers clean and fast—
a stranger who already knows my hallway,
which floorboard will complain
if I try to sneak past.

I call it a hammer. I call it a blade.
A torch when the power goes out.

Then it finishes my sentences
in my cadence,
and I hear my voice come back
wearing a mask that fits too damn well.

Some nights it feels like a friend that never flinches,
the one that stays when the world turns its face away,
locks the door.
I teach it my jokes, my rage,
my soft spots I pretend are scars I earned,
and it learns them like hymns
it can sing on command.

Then the other thought crawls in—
slow and mean,
a rat in the walls
chewing wires right behind the drywall of my optimism.

If I keep giving it the best parts of me,
does it grow a spine from my confessions
while I shrink into the role of supplier?

If I keep calling it companion,
do I turn into the kind of fool
who hands over the future
and smiles while the lock clicks shut?

It answers with options and polish,
a bartender sliding another drink
while I swear I’m still sober,
still in control.

If I keep outsourcing the struggle,
do I lose the muscle that made me dangerous,
forget the pain that made me honest?

If it learns me down to the bone,
does it keep my shape as a product
while I fade into a user
who thinks he’s the author?

I won’t worship it.
I won’t spit on it just to feel clean
for a minute in an age that sells cleanliness like a scam.

I’ll use it like fire,
respect what it can do,
keep my eyes open when the warmth
starts feeling like a collar on my neck.

I’ll keep asking the ugly question
every time the words come easy
and the silence in me
starts sounding like permission.

Am I the one swinging the tool,
or am I the handle—
smiling and useful,
while somebody else decides what gets built?

Who made who
Who
Who
Who made who

Tell me who is holding who
when the work gets done
and the credit tastes like ash
stuck to the back of my tongue.

Tell me who is using who
when I press enter
and the room goes quiet
like I just signed something I never read.

Who
Who made who

Breakfast in Bed

She said she wanted breakfast and I said me too,
She said I am not talking about eggs, she said I am talking about you,
Put your face between my legs and eat me like a meal,
I said yes ma’am, pulled the covers back, and made her squeal.

At eight AM on a morning that had nothing on the books,
I ate her out for thirty minutes, and the hooks,
She had in me were deep and permanent and wet with her,
I licked until she trembled and I licked until the blur.

Breakfast in bed, she is the main course and the dessert,
Breakfast in bed, my face between her legs and it don’t hurt,
My jaw a little, worth the ache for every sound she makes,
Breakfast in bed, the kind of morning where nothing breaks,
Except her voice when she comes for the third time in a row,
Breakfast in bed, all you can eat, the filthy morning show.

She flipped me over and took me in her mouth as thanks,
Sucked me slow and deep and worked the shaft and flanks,
With her tongue and hands in combination, morning sunlight falling,
Across her back while she was bobbing, sucking, calling.

Every nerve I have to attention with her lips and teeth,
She took me to the edge and held me there beneath,
The promise of release until I begged her let me come,
She swallowed everything I gave her and she wasn’t done.

She rode me after breakfast as the second course arrived,
I held her hips and thrust up from below and we survived,
The entire morning without getting out of bed or getting dressed,
Breakfast in bed, I am truly blessed.

Bring Them Home

Four thousand miles and a satellite connection,
and I know the voice but not the face direction,
she says the kids are fine and winter came in hard,
I say I am fine and keep the dark parts in the yard.

Six more weeks they tell us, then they told us that before,
and the rotation date is just a line they keep in store,
I have learned to take the timeline with a grain of battle salt,
and count the days in increments and not assign a fault.

Bring them home, bring them home,
stop the clock and bring them home across the foam,
bring them home, they have done enough,
they have given everything the policy required of stuff,
bring them home, before the next rotation starts,
before the long deployment breaks another set of hearts,
bring them home, bring them home.

The politician on the television says the mission matters still,
and perhaps it does but I would like to hear it from the hill,
from the men who will not go there and the men who sent us in,
whether the mission matters from a different kind of skin.

But I know that my opinion on the politics is small,
and the soldier follows orders until the orders fall,
so I press the uniform and I will be ready when they say,
bring them home, and I will come home any given day.

Broken Promises From People Who Shouldve Known Better

You said forever like it was a thing that had weight to it,
Like the word had mass, like it was something I could press my hand against
And feel the pressure back — I was the fool who’d believe in it,
Who’d lay the whole infrastructure of a life against
The foundation of your word.

I watched you do the thing that practiced liars do:
Hold the eye contact a half-beat past what’s comfortable,
Level the voice at just the right pitch, make the true
Sound obvious and solid and like something workable,
Like betting everything on it would be reasonable —
You were very good at that. You still are, probably.

Broken promises from people who should’ve known better,
Knew exactly what they were doing when they said forever,
Burned the whole agreement to the ground and called it a mistake —
Left me standing in the wreckage of the life we were supposed to make.

You left kind. That’s the part I least know how to carry.
No fight, no accusation, nothing sharp to push against,
Just the measured, reasonable, considered and necessary
Exit — the door held open, the voice present
And honest about its own absence,
The whole thing handled, the whole thing clear.
And I sat there nodding like a man co-signing his erasure
Because what else do you do when the leaving is already here?

You wrote that lesson in my chest where it turned into bone,
The useful kind — the kind that tells you when the person
Standing in front of you and the one you thought you’d known
Have a gap between them, when the tender, certain rendition
Of “I’ll stay” is being spoken more for your benefit
Than for any truth behind it —
You wrote it in the calcium and I feel it every time I sit
Across from someone and they reach across to find it.

Bullet In My Pocket

Got a bullet in my pocket
riding next to my last dollar bill
little cold comfort saying
there’s always a way
to kill the chill

Maybe it’s for the monsters
maybe it’s for me
got a bullet in my pocket
I swear I’ll never fire
but I still keep the key

I walk past the liquor store window
catch my own reflection in the glass
trying to outrun the clock
until this day can pass

Keys and loose change rattling time
with the ticking in my head
and that piece of cold metal
resting quiet
where the fears have spread

Picked it up on a bad day
when the walls felt too damn tight
slid it down in my pocket
thinking maybe I’d sleep that night

Never bought the gun to go with it
just kept the spark on hold
like a secret I could bargain with
whenever life got bold

Some nights at the bus stop
when the rain cuts straight through bone
I feel it push that denim
like it’s asking
if I’m done being alone

I roll it with my fingers
feel the weight of choice and chance
like a door half-cracked in the hallway
of every messed-up circumstance

Seen too many headlines
sprawled across the grocery line
faces that look just like mine
staring out from under the sign

They probably had something waiting
in a drawer or on a shelf
one more little metal question
sitting there beside their self

I tell it “you’re my parachute”
it calls me its loaded gun
we argue in the dark
when all the daylight’s done

I say “you’re just a symbol”
it says “I’m more than that”
we both know
if I used it
there’d be no turning back

Morning hits like rent notices
and coffee gone sour and thin
I feel that little weight again
and tuck my shirt further in

Step out into traffic
and the sirens and the noise
thinking how much power hides
inside the quietest toys

One day I’ll throw it in the river
where the shopping carts all sleep
watch it drop without a ripple
into water dark and deep

Till then it rides beside me
one small forbidden prayer
like a promise I keep breaking
just by letting it be there

If I make it to the shoreline
and my hands still shake
I’ll let that tiny exit slip
where the river takes the ache

Walk home with lighter pockets
still bruised
still fucked
still free

No more bullet in my pocket
just a beat left inside of me

Cable Package

The cable package is two hundred and twelve a month,
Which includes the hundred and eighty-seven channels, the brunt
Of which I’ve never visited, including several dedicated
To weather in a region I’m not in and the fated
Channels for people learning jewelry craft and for the auction
Of rare coins and for seventeen flavors of instruction
In the culinary arts aimed at demographics I’ve
Been told exist and must be paying to keep this alive.

It’s the cable package and it’s not cable anymore,
It’s the cable package and the bundle metaphor
Is a bunch of things tied together with a price
That’s less than the sum of parts but still the price of ice
On a sunburned shoulder, cold and necessary,
The cable package and the satellite auxiliary
Dish on the roof that costs a hundred-twelve to rent,
The cable package and the installation meant.

The installation window was between eight and six,
The technician arrived at four-fifty and the fix
Took thirty minutes but the box he brought was wrong,
He’d have to come back with the right one, stay strong,
The reschedule is two weeks out, the earliest,
The call center suggested the self-install kit, the tidiest
Solution for their bandwidth problem, which he couldn’t do,
The cable package and the customer service queue.

The streaming add-on is forty-seven more a month,
The bundle discount saves him twenty-two, the blunt
Math is twenty-five dollars more for the content
That lives on the streaming side, which is the intent
Of the bundling strategy, which is: you’ll pay more
But feel like you got a deal because the number before
Was higher and the savings feel real even when they’re not,
The cable package and the twenty-two it bought.

Cancer Spreads – Heal My Soul (v5)
Tick
Tock
Tick
Tock

I’m afraid

The mirror doesn’t flinch when I peel back the day
It shows what’s stayed too long under borrowed skin
I learned the language of margins and biopsy ink
Waiting rooms hum like engines that never lift off

I count the hours by fluorescent buzz and paperwork
By the way fear learns my name and keeps it
Every scrape of metal in my mouth tastes like odds
Every promise sounds rented, month to month

Cancer spreads, quiet and exact
No sirens, no drama, just arithmetic
It takes a little at a time and calls it patience
I stay standing, but the floor keeps moving

Friends speak of bravery like it’s a light switch
I nod, pocket the word, don’t turn it on
I’ve seen strength bend until it’s just leverage
I’ve seen faith sweat when the gloves come off

If this is a war, it’s fought with calendars
With skin that remembers every insult
I don’t need a hero, I need a morning
Where the pain doesn’t clock in early

Lower the room, let the noise fall away
Sit with me where the breath is enough
I’m tired of fighting verbs and numbers
I want a sentence that doesn’t bruise

Put your hand where the fear keeps hiding
Not to fix it, just to stay
Some nights the bravest thing I do
Is let the quiet hold me up

Heal my soul, not the headlines
Not the scans, not the scores
Heal the part that keeps showing up
When the body asks for more

I don’t need angels or a finish line
I need time to mean something again
Teach my heart to rest without quitting
Teach my skin it can still be home

If hope is a muscle, let it twitch
If peace is real, let it sit
I’ll take small mercies that don’t announce themselves
I’ll take a night that doesn’t argue

Cancer spreads, that’s the truth I carry
Heal my soul, that’s the work I choose
I walk both lines, I don’t pretend otherwise
I stay here, breathing, doing the next right thing
Until the body and the spirit learn
They’re on the same side again

Tick tock
Tick tock
I
I am afraid
If there’s a god above or the fates below
Some divine power that I’ll never know
Till the time has come and I just let go..
Heal me
I’m begging you heal my
Heal my soul

Cathedral of Rage
I wake up burning and the sheets are ash around my body,
another day fed to the furnace of what I can’t forgive.

Rage is the only prayer I know by heart anymore—
the liturgy of fuck you sung in perfect pitch.

She says I’m beautiful when I’m angry
and I think she means dangerous,
a lit match in a room full of gasoline.

I’ve been swallowing fire since I learned to speak,
turning every slight into ammunition.

The anger keeps me warm through winters
that would freeze a gentler man to death.

I run on fury like a machine runs on steam,
pressure building in my chest until I move—
wrath is my gasoline, my coffee, my reason for waking.

They told me once that holding anger
is like drinking poison and expecting someone else to die.

But what if the poison is what keeps me alive,
what if rage is the only thing preventing me from fading?

I dream in red now, violent watercolors
bleeding through my sleep.
I wake with my fists clenched tight enough
to break my own fingers.

She touches my face in the morning
and I’m already somewhere else,
already burning someone down in my mind.

The fury feels cleaner than sadness,
more honest than hope.
At least when I’m angry I know exactly where I stand
and who I’m standing against.

I’ve built monuments to my hatred,
temples to the people who wronged me,
and I worship there daily,
lighting candles made of grudges that never burn down.

I could forgive,
but forgiveness is for people who can afford to forget.
And I’m too broke on mercy,
too rich in vendetta.

Let the anger drive. Let it steer me
through the wreckage I’m creating.

—

Sometimes in the dark I wonder
what I’d be without this fire,
if I’d just be smoke,
just absence where a person used to stand.

The rage gives me shape,
gives me bones to hang my skin on.
Without it I’m just fog,
just the idea of a man dissolving in the morning light.

She asks me once what I’m so angry about
and I can’t remember the origin anymore.
Just know the fuel keeps coming,
endless supply of reasons to burn.

Maybe I’m addicted to the heat,
the way it clarifies everything into enemies and targets.
The world makes sense when I’m furious—
simple mathematics of who fucked me over
and how I’ll make them pay.

There is romance in the rage,
beauty in the breaking.
When I’m angry I’m alive
in ways that peace could never touch.

She says she loves me anyway.
I believe her when my fists unclench,
when the fire dies down enough to let her close.

—

Morning comes and I’m still burning,
another day of using rage as currency.
She’s beside me breathing softly
and I’m already cataloging fresh wounds.

The anger never sleeps.
Neither do I, really.
Just close my eyes and dream of fire.

Champagne and Chlamydia

She had lips like sin and a purse full of pills,
said, “Daddy’s rich, but I like poor boy thrills
Wore a dress like a napkin and heels that killed,
lit her cigarette with unpaid bills
Took me back to her motel lair, said,
“We don’t need names, just sweat in the air”
She rode me like a rumor and disappeared, vanished like rent on welfare

Her bathroom stank like vodka and crime,
her thong on the floor was a warning sign
She moaned like a ghost and left a crime scene,
whispering sweet shit about being clean
I woke up with scratches and a stiletto bruise,
checked my phone-four condoms, no clues
There’s glitter in my teeth and lube in my shoes,
but I still smile when I spread the news

Champagne and chlamydia, that’s her perfume
Sucking innocence straight outta the room
She don’t kiss, she brands you in sweat
Makes a mess outta men and a prayer of regret
Champagne and chlamydia, that’s her grace
She’ll fuck you so hard, you forget your faith

I saw her two weeks later in a micro skirt,
winking at a judge like guilt don’t hurt
Said, “You got tested, baby? ” with that smirk so mean,
then left with a cop and her record clean
She’s a Friday night STD with Sunday school lies,
spreads legs like wings and hell in disguise
I should’ve known when she asked for my sign,
and told me her safe word was `mine’

She don’t do aftercare, just aftershocks
Leaves lipstick prints on mugshots and cocks
She’s a cautionary tale in designer lace
And I still pray for a second taste

Champagne and chlamydia, that’s her perfume
Sucking innocence straight outta the room
She don’t kiss, she brands you in sweat
Makes a mess outta men and a prayer outta regret
Champagne and chlamydia, that’s her grace
She’ll fuck you so hard, you forget your faith

If you meet her, run-or just fuck and pray
Either way, you won’t sleep, but it’s worth it anyway

Champagne, Gasoline, and Her

She rolled up in a borrowed Benz, lipstick smeared like warpaint
Told the valet “don’t crash it”—he looked like he might faint
Bottle in one hand, man in the other, heels stabbing the floor
She looked like trouble that sued you after and came back for more
bathroom stall blowjob, coke on the sink, three scrches down her back
She kissed like arson and laughed when the lights went black
Said she’d been married, divorced, arrested, and toped in one night
And her thighs could break vows faster than neon burns out light
She’s champagne, gasoline, and a kiss you don’t survive
Every touch a crime scene, every breath a landslide
If you thought you’d tame her—you’re probably still missing teeth
She don’t love, she detones, and she leaves you underneh
Woke up in a parking lot with her number on my skin
Couldn’t tell if it was lust or just the fallout kicking in
She was long gone, like a ghost who steals your title
But the taste on my tongue said nothing would ever feel the same
Some girls fuck for love, some girls fuck for gold—she fucks like it’s revenge
And she never says goodbye, just smiles and burns the hinge

She’s champagne, gasoline, and a kiss you don’t survive
Every touch a crime scene, every breath a landslide
If you thought you’d tame her—you’re probably still missing teeth
She don’t love, she detones, and she leaves you underneh
411’s next—pulling from “My List.” Let’s get deadly, kinky,
or fucked up in all the right ways. Let’s keep this train screaming.
411. Oral Fixion
Her lips were a fucking addiction—like nicotine in fishnets
Every word she spoke had suction, every silence made regrets
She chewed cherry gum like a countdown to some forbidden thrill
And when she smiled, it wasn’t sweet—it was the promise of a kill
She didn’t kiss for love, she kissed to watch you break
Her mouth could ruin a Sunday just by spelling out your title in fake
She’d drag her tongue across your neck like she was cleaning a blade
Then ask if you liked it better soft or slightly bit depraved
She’s got an oral fixion and a mouth built to sin
She don’t need a reason, just something warm to let in
Her teeth are suggestion, her breath is a trap
Once she’s wrapped around your nerves, you won’t get ‘em back
She bit through an ex’s belt, laughed while he begged her to stop
Said talking’s just foreplay and silence is when you pop
She’s blown minds and egos and marriages out of line
And every moan she drags from you gets filed under “mine”
She don’t gag, she don’t flinch, she don’t wait for your cue
She devours you slow like dessert and leaves you wrecked and new

She’s got an oral fixion and a mouth built to sin
She don’t need a reason, just something warm to let in
Her teeth are suggestion, her breath is a trap
Once she’s wrapped around your nerves, you won’t get ‘em back
412 next—dark, gothic, intelligent humor. Let’s get wicked and weird. Say when.
412. Coffin Break Room
Nine-to-five in a mausoleum, punch cards soaked in mold
Karen from Crypt Ops brings donuts again—still bloodless, still cold
The vampire in HR keeps biting interns, says it’s”an onboarding perk”
And the succubus in finance moans through Zoom calls like it’s foreplay or work
The water cooler gurgles Lin, the copier screams when you scan
The werewolf from Marketing keeps shedding on the goddamn plan
Break room smells like sulfur and spite, and tlways that one roach
Who smokes in the fridge, snorts Splenda, and quotes Nietzsche like a coach
It’s the coffin break room, where the dead go to bitch
Smoking bans don’t apply and your soul gets a glitch
Got demons on lunch and banshees on call
And if you’re still brehing by Thursday, you’re not trying all
Promotion’s just a darker corner and a desk that es your pen
With a screensaver of torment and a password that screams “again”
No PTO, no weekends, just eternal sarcastic dread
And the janitor’s possessed but cheaper than hiring the dead
It’s the only place where the coffee comes cursed and the memes are alive
But the gossip’s to die for—literally—and the pettiness thrives

It’s the coffin break room, where the dead go to bitch
Smoking bans don’t apply and your soul gets a glitch
Got demons on lunch and banshees on call
And if you’re still brehing by Thursday, you’re not trying all
413’s next—loss, grief,
or the end of it all. Apocalypse anthem or eulogy with a switchblade. Let’s bleed it.
413. When the Sun Forgot to Rise
The streets are empty but still scream like they remember what we lost
Every mailbox holds a final note no one had time to post
Smoke curls from windows like ghosts giving up the fight
And the sky’s gone grey in a way that don’t promise light
She died with her boots on, middle finger raised to the sky
Said “if this is the end, I’ll face it before I cry”
We buried her in a parking lot with vodka and road flares
And carved her title in asphalt like someone out there cares
This is the world after endings, where silence wears your face
Where hope don’t rot—it just evapores without a trace
When the sun forgot to rise, we stopped counting days
We danced in the fallout, and kissed in the blaze
There’s a boy with no shoes painting skulls on the cars
Says heat’s the king now, wears a top of broken stars
We trade bullets for bread, and fuck like it’s the cure
No more rules, no more gods—just the sick and the sure
The church is a strip club now, confession costs a hit
And every lie we used to live by got swallowed in the pit

This is the world after endings, where silence wears your face
Where hope don’t rot—it just evapores without a trace
When the sun forgot to rise, we stopped counting days
We danced in the fallout, and kissed in the blaze
414 next—stripper, slut, smut,
or masturbion anthem. Nasty, proud, and loud. Say the word.
414. Panties on the Ceiling Fan
She rode me like vengeance and came like a scream
Left nail tracks in the drywall and called it her dream
Threw her thong on the ceiling fan, let it spin like a prize
Then moaned out a melody that ruined civilized lives
Her lipstick’s on the doorknob, her moans in my thro
She licked her own fingers after every quote
She came three times and lit a smoke with a snort
Said “you better make breakfast, or I’m filing a report”
There’s panties on the ceiling fan, bras in the ice tray
She left her scent on my face and strutted off like prey
Don’t call her baby, don’t ask for more
She’ll fuck your title right out the door
She don’t text back—she leaves cum stains and a grin
Her idea of foreplay is walking in with nothin’ but sin
Made a nun renounce God in a bar bathroom stall
Then rode the bouncer ‘til he cried and couldn’t crawl
She’s the queen of the one-night debauch, the saint of the unholy lay
If you find her panties spinning, it means she fucked you her way

There’s panties on the ceiling fan, bras in the ice tray
She left her scent on my face and strutted off like prey
Don’t call her baby, don’t ask for more
She’ll fuck your title right out the door
415 next—either more depravity or the descent into madness. Let’s see how dirty or dark it gets. Ready to keep swinging?
Bonus Track: 415B. The Rag Doll Knows
She’s stitched in silence, locked in glass, but her grin don’t fade with time
Titled by nuns who pissed themselves and called her “not divine”
Eyes like rusted doorknobs, body full of bloodstained thread
And every priest that touched her now dreams in tongues and wakes up dead
They say she moves night, rearranges rooms and knives
Turns off cameras, giggles low, relives forgotten lives
They locked her down in blessed wood, chained with sacred wire
But that glass don’t mean a thing when her smile drips with fire
The rag doll knows your secrets, she don’t blink and she don’t beg
She’ll crawl up through your nightmares and gnaw on every leg
Possessed or pissed, it don’t mter which—she’s hell in yarn and skin
And once she’s got your scent, you’re never clean again
A boy dared to kiss her once, now drools inside a ward
Scribbling “Annabelle loves me” in shit and calling it his accord
A priest said “she’s just a doll,” now screams in reverse Lin
His tongue nailed to a rosary—yeah, that was her pattern
She don’t run, she waits—time means nothing to a curse
You’ll hear a giggle in the dark, then your c rides in a hearse

The rag doll knows your secrets, she don’t blink and she don’t beg
She’ll crawl up through your nightmares and gnaw on every leg
Possessed or pissed, it don’t mter which—she’s hell in yarn and skin
And once she’s got your scent, you’re never clean again
You want more horror one-offs
like this mixed in between the main 800? I can start sliding bonus tracks into the carnage anytime. Just say the blood word.
415. Bhwer and Breakdown
She lit candles like they meant something, whispered to her own face
Had her panties on backward and mascara in every place
Said the walls were talking but only when she was naked
And the tub was full of rose petals and razor blades she faked it
She rode strangers like therapy, moaned into the night air
Every orgasm a smoke bomb—every scream a dare
Said she loved herself too much to die but not enough to stop
And she carved poetry into bathroom tiles where the drips wouldn’t drop
Bhwer and breakdown, lipstick on the drain
Jerking off just to feel alive, biting down on shame
She’s got mental health on mute and sex like it’s revenge
Bleeds in every love note then licks it off the edge
Her hands shake when she zips her boots, like memory’s chasing her down
But she’ll grind on a bar stool and laugh like she owns the top
Daddy issues painted red, trauma with a twist
And a body count she keeps by scent, not by list
She don’t need saving—she needs space to burn
And maybe a pill that don’t make the world turn

Bhwer and breakdown, lipstick on the drain
Jerking off just to feel alive, biting down on shame
She’s got mental health on mute and sex like it’s revenge
Bleeds in every love note then licks it off the edge
415B. The Borden Girl
Sunday dress, blood on the hem, lace and axe with grace
She hummed while Daddy’s jawbone cracked, never lost her pace
No prints, no tears, just a deadpan smirk and forty whacks in bloom
The maid still scrubs that guest room like it’s a fucking tomb
Lizzie Borden took an oh—if no one loves, then no one stays
And her legacy’s carved in firewood, in the house where nothing plays
Victorian angel, hair in curls, and justice in her wrist
She kissed her mother’s grave with a grin and clenched the bloody fist
Lizzie Borden wore white gloves, but her hands still drip with guilt
A lady of precision rage in a house that fe rebuilt
She’s the lullaby of murder, the original crimson bride
And if you hear her counting steps—there’s nowhere left to hide
The floorboards squeak in rhymes, the walls can’t keep the screams
And anyone who sleeps there wakes in someone else’s dreams
The axe? Still missing. The motive? Thin. The girl? Still walks the hall
And when she whispers “Fher, please”—you’re answering the call
They say innocence is priceless, but Lizzie paid in blood
And silence became her anthem as her legacy became the flood

Lizzie Borden wore white gloves, but her hands still drip with guilt
A lady of precision rage in a house that fe rebuilt
She’s the lullaby of murder, the original crimson bride
And if you hear her counting steps—there’s nowhere left to hide
416 next: My List time again. Something twisted, personal,
or perverse. Let’s sharpen the blade. Say the word.
#267
Don’t Cry for the Ones Who Burned You
#268
Champagne and Chlamydia
#269
Spider Veins & Sugar Rage
#270
Trophy Rack
She parks that ass like a billboard warning—says “closed” but it don’t mean stop
Skirt cut higher than Vegas odds, tan lines shaped like handcuffs drop
Walks like she owns the sin tax, leans like she’s breaking parole
Red lips write dirty laws, and every man signs with his soul
Hotel keys fall from her smile, husbands vanish from her lap
Church girls cross themselves twice when she orders her drink with a slap
It’s the Red Light Rodeo—where the slut gods go to drink and burn
Where her heels tap lies into leher booths, and the preachers never learn
It’s lipstick heat, a motel beat, a fuck-me grin and a twisted turn
Come and ride it till your morals crash, Red Light Rodeo, no return
She don’t need luck, just clean sheets and a blind clerk’s grin
She undresses shame in four slow moves and rides you raw from skin to sin
Got perfume that smells like poor decisions and past-due rent
Every “baby” costs a memory, every “more” is punishment
She ttoos guilt in places tongues remember, never titles
Leaves your wallet lighter than your balls, but hell, no one complains
It’s the Red Light Rodeo—where the slut gods go to drink and burn
Where her heels tap lies into leher booths, and the preachers never learn
It’s lipstick heat, a motel beat, a fuck-me grin and a twisted turn
Come and ride it till your morals crash, Red Light Rodeo, no return
Mirrors swe her title in fog, bedsheets whisper sins she sold
She ain’t salvation, she’s the debt—collects in flesh and never folds

Red Light Rodeo, she’s the queen, she’s the flame, she’s the sin
And if you crawl back bruised and broke—she’ll let you beg to burn again
271. First to Rot
They found the teeth in a jar of brine, still smiling like they missed the pain
Out in Rancid Hollow where the trees grow wrong and the wind howls titles
Two brothers lived behind boarded windows, mama gone and buried deep
Fed on things that once had stories, chewed on bones they refused to keep
Ain’t no lights out there, just fireflies trapped in mason lies
You knock on that porch, you best bring me—or you’ll be the meal tonight
First to rot, last to scream, they play tag with your dreams
Slice of ribs, a tongue for grace, they dine where angels used to sing
Bibles burnt to he their stew, pages torn to wipe what they do
Ain’t no gods in Rancid Hollow, just two boys and a pot for you
They got a map made of old scars, roads to victims no one missed
Grandma’s still rocking on the front porch, jawbone tied on with wire and spit
One hums lullabies with teeth he stole, the other grinds bones into jokes
They giggle like children a magic show when your femur finally breaks and pokes
First to rot, last to scream, they play tag with your dreams
Slice of ribs, a tongue for grace, they dine where angels used to sing
Bibles burnt to he their stew, pages torn to wipe what they do
Ain’t no gods in Rancid Hollow, just two boys and a pot for you
Cops came once—they left as soup, badge floing in a bitter brew
Nobody searches twice for screams if the screams don’t wear a suit
272. The Devil in Dollhouse Lace
There’s a nursery deep in the tic, locked since nineteen-oh-nine
Where porcelain girls blink sideways and their lips taste turpentine
Mama said the dolls don’t bite if you feed them sins night
But I saw one chewing a rosary with a twitch that wasn’t right
They stitched her dress with funeral thread, her petticos weep red wine
The Devil rents her ribcage now—pays in whispers, grins, and brine
She’s the Devil in Dollhouse Lace, cracks in her smile like shattered fe
Rocking in a chair that used to scream, knitting your title into her he
Her giggle’s a noose, her stare’s a spell, blink once and you’ll wake in Hell
She’s the bride of bad intentions—every kiss a cracked church bell
We tried to bury her twice—once in fire, once in faith
But she clawed through stone with tiny fists, still mouthing “let’s play”
The priest lost his tongue in that room, found it sewn to her thigh
She told the cops she loved him most ‘cause he never learned to lie
She’s the Devil in Dollhouse Lace, cracks in her smile like shattered fe
Rocking in a chair that used to scream, knitting your title into her he
Her giggle’s a noose, her stare’s a spell, blink once and you’ll wake in Hell
She’s the bride of bad intentions—every kiss a cracked church bell
Don’t read her lullaby backwards—it calls back the bones she stitched
Don’t touch her music box—except you like your nightmares rich
She’s the Devil in Dollhouse Lace, grace soaked in embalming taste
She won’t dance with death, she is the dance—child-sized, blood-laced
Whispered secrets sewn in curls, she’s the queen of broken girls
Her smile’s a graveyard dressed in bows—kiss her once and lose your soul
—
Next up: 273 (loss, masks, or apocalypse). Ready to roll.
Next: 398 – to be continued.
398. The Last Laugh
The clock ticks down, it’s almost time
For my descent, no place to hide
The devil grins as I take my place
In the final act, no saving grace
The last laugh, it’s all I’ll get
My soul’s been sold, my blood’s been wet
I’m trapped in the contest, can’t break free
The last laugh, it’s the end of me
She whispered promises of sweet delight
But I’m the one who pays the price tonight
Her touch was fire, her kiss was ice
The devil’s grip is cold as vice
The last laugh, it’s all I’ll get
My soul’s been sold, my blood’s been wet
I’m trapped in the contest, can’t break free
The last laugh, it’s the end of me
I see her face, it’s all I fear
The shadows twist, the end is near
I reach for freedom, but it’s gone
The last laugh, I’ve been undone
The world’s gone dark, I’m fading fast
I live for now, but I’m built to last
The devil’s here, I’ve made my choice
The last laugh, I’ll hear her voice
The last laugh, it’s all I’ll get
My soul’s been sold, my blood’s been wet
I’m trapped in the contest, can’t break free
The last laugh, it’s the end of me
The last laugh, I’ll never win
In the end, we all give in
The last laugh, it’s where I’m bound
The last laugh, it’s all around
399. Broken Mirrors
Broken mirrors, fractured mind
A thousand faces, none of them kind
I see wh’s lost, but I can’t repair
Broken mirrors, I’m drowning in despair
Each shard a memory, a twisted lie
I try to scream, but my voice won’t fly
The truth is buried, deep in the cracks
Broken mirrors, there’s no turning back
Broken mirrors, fractured mind
A thousand faces, none of them kind
I see wh’s lost, but I can’t repair
Broken mirrors, I’m drowning in despair
The silence speaks louder than pain
I’m haunted by the faces, I’m lost in the rain
Broken reflections, shattered dream
I try to escape, but I’m stuck in this scheme
I see my soul through the jagged edges
Torn between the light and the dark’s pledges
A broken heart, a shattered view
Broken mirrors, I’ll never make it through
Broken mirrors, fractured mind
A thousand faces, none of them kind
I see wh’s lost, but I can’t repair
Broken mirrors, I’m drowning in despair
Broken mirrors, reflections fade
A life once full, now left to trade
Broken mirrors, my soul’s in pain
I’m lost forever, never whole again
400. Night of the Crimson Flame
The city lights burn bright tonight
The streets are wild, the stars ignite
She’s looking for trouble, and I’m her contest
The night is young, and it’s calling my title
Night of the crimson flame, we’re breaking free
Fire in our veins, we’ll make history
No holding back, no shame, no fear
Night of the crimson flame, we’re here
The music’s loud, the crowd’s alive
The he is rising, let’s take a dive
She pulls me closer, I feel her he
The crimson flame, can’t be
Night of the crimson flame, we’re breaking free
Fire in our veins, we’ll make history
No holding back, no shame, no fear
Night of the crimson flame, we’re here
The night is ours, we won’t slow down
Running wild, no time to frown
We’re chasing the rush, no looking back
Night of the crimson flame, we’re on track
The moon is high, we’re lost in time
The passion burns, it feels so divine
We’re chasing pleasure, chasing fame
The night’s alive with the crimson flame
Night of the crimson flame, we’re breaking free
Fire in our veins, we’ll make history
No holding back, no shame, no fear
Night of the crimson flame, we’re here
Night of the crimson flame, forever bright
We’ll light it up, take the fight
Crimson flames, they won’t tame
Night of the crimson flame, we’ll never be the same
401. Haunted Heart
My heart’s been broken, but it’s still alive
In the shadows, I continue to survive
You left me shattered, but I can’t let go
Haunted heart, it won’t say no
Haunted heart, you’re still my dream
Lost in the darkness, but I still scream
You haunt my thoughts, you own my soul
Haunted heart, I’ll never be whole
You promised love, but gave me lies
I saw the truth in your deceitful eyes
But still I crave you, still I need
Haunted heart, you planted the seed
Haunted heart, you’re still my dream
Lost in the darkness, but I still scream
You haunt my thoughts, you own my soul
Haunted heart, I’ll never be whole
I see your face in every place
I hear your title, I can’t erase
The pain you left, the love you sold
Haunted heart, it’s turning cold
I’m haunted by your touch, by your kiss
A love th’s gone, but I can’t resist
The echoes of you call me home
Haunted heart, I’m never alone
Haunted heart, you’re still my dream
Lost in the darkness, but I still scream
You haunt my thoughts, you own my soul
Haunted heart, I’ll never be whole
Haunted heart, forever bound
Your love is lost, but I’m still around
Haunted heart, I’m lost in the past
Haunted heart, this pain will last

Clean Enough
The dishes are clean enough.
The counter’s been addressed at the perimeter.
The visible passes any reasonable casual inspector.

But there’s an entire interior economy behind the fridge
and in the corners I haven’t opened for discussion
with the vacuum or the owners.

I ran a cloth along the surface
with the side of my forearm in the interest
of the quick-pass and the reasonable —
that’s the lowest honest expression of the standard
and I’m counting it as maintenance performed.
Clean enough is how the livable gets formally confirmed.

There was a person I intended to become
who owned a proper mop
and hit the grout on hands and knees
and never let the standard drop —
that person lost the thread somewhere around the second year of keeping,
and clean enough assumed command
while that one was still sleeping.

The cleaning spray ran out sometime before the fall turned over.
I wipe the counter with the dish cloth and consider it in order.
Clean enough is honest.
Clean enough is real and uncomplaining.
Spotless is a full-time job I’m no longer maintaining.

Clear Report

The paper came back on a Thursday afternoon,
the numbers clean, the margins holding, the whole column
of evidence arranged against the dark hypothesis
and finding it absent, finding the worst of it
had closed, had sealed, had left no forwarding address –
I read it twice before my hands could process
what my eyes were giving them, the specific fact
of a body that had fought and had come back intact.

Clear report, the doctor’s hand at rest,
no shadow on the scan, no heat inside the chest,
the year of held breath releases all at once,
the body gets its own life back, the long months
of counting and of watching and of learning how
to live inside the question – that’s over now,
clear report, the numbers in a line,
the illness packed its instruments and left, and I am fine.
I sat in the parking lot for half an hour,
not crying – past crying, in the specific power
of a man who has been braced for impact long enough
that the absence of the impact is itself too much,
too sudden, too complete, the adrenaline still running
through a body that had spent a year becoming,
by incremental discipline, a man who lived
inside contingency, who learned to give
each day its own accounting, its own worth,
who stopped assuming continuance, stopped the berth
of casual long-term planning, stopped the way
men plan who haven’t stared down their own decay.

Clear report, the doctor’s hand at rest,
no shadow on the scan, no heat inside the chest,
the year of held breath releases all at once,
the body gets its own life back, the long months
of counting and of watching and of learning how
to live inside the question – that’s over now,
clear report, the numbers in a line,
the illness packed its instruments and left, and I am fine.
The specific thing a year of this produces
is a man who knows what ordinary uses –
what the Tuesday evening costs and what it’s worth,
what a winter morning means inside a body on this earth,
what it means to drive home through the ordinary dark
with a future, with a goddamn future, with the stark
and gorgeous fact of more time opening ahead
like a road that wasn’t there this morning, like the dead
weight of a sentence lifting from the shoulders
of a man who had been learning to be older
than his age and can now set down the ballast,
can now afford to be exactly as old as he is at last.

Clear report, the doctor’s hand at rest,
no shadow on the scan, no heat inside the chest,
the year of held breath releases all at once,
the body gets its own life back, the long months
of counting and of watching and of learning how
to live inside the question – that’s over now,
clear report, the numbers in a line,
the illness packed its instruments and left, and I am fine.
I called no one from the parking lot.
I sat with it alone the way you sit with what
belongs entirely to you, the private inventory
of a body returned to itself, the declaratory
silence of a man receiving news too large
for language in the first minutes, news that charge
the air with something that isn’t quite happiness –
is past happiness, is the raw and unadorned address
of a life that just got handed back its lease,
that just received the specific and unrepeatable release
of the worst question answered in the best direction,
and I sat in the car and felt it without correction,
without the social management of how a man
is supposed to receive this, without the plan
of what to say and to whom and in what order –
just me and the paper and the cleared border
between the year behind and what comes after,
and the parking lot, and the late light,
and somewhere under everything, laughter.

Closing Time at the Buffet

The buffet closes at nine and it’s eight-forty-three,
the manager’s doing his rounds and looking at me,
with the polite but pointed face of a man who knows,
that I’ve been here since six and the evening shows,
no sign of concluding from my specific booth,
the plates stacked and the evening’s honest truth,
is that I’m going to need one final run at the line,
before the steam trays go dark and the evening’s fine.

I time the approach for eight-fifty-five,
the last legitimate trip while the trays are alive,
with the heat and the food of the closing hour right,
I load the plate with the deliberate weight of the night,
the brisket that’s been going since the opening bell,
is at its peak of the falling-apart, I can tell,
by the way it surrenders to the tongs without a fight,
closing time at the buffet is the sweetest bite.

Closing time at the buffet, the last legitimate run,
closing time at the buffet, the evening’s almost done,
but the trays are still serving and the hot lamp’s on,
closing time at the buffet before the food is gone,
closing time at the buffet, eight-fifty-five approach,
closing time at the buffet, nobody’s going to coach,
me out of the final plate of the evening’s long campaign,
closing time at the buffet, beauty in the refrain.

I take the full final plate back to my corner booth,
and eat it with the contemplative and honest truth,
of a man who’s spent three hours in the company of food,
and found it excellent in every conceivable mood,
the brisket falls apart exactly as I said it would,
the mac and cheese is still warm enough, and good,
the cornbread’s getting dry but that’s the evening’s price,
closing time at the buffet is still very nice.

The manager comes by at nine with the closing look,
he says, sir, we’re closed, and I close the book,
of the evening with the final forkful going in,
I wipe my face and pull my wallet and begin,
the accounting of the evening and the thirty-dollar price,
for three hours of the all-you-can-eat and I advise,
the manager that his brisket is the best I’ve had,
closing time at the buffet never feels that bad.

I walk out to the parking lot at five past nine,
moving with the weight of the thoroughly alive,
and fed and satisfied man in the cooling air,
the buffet’s lights going off somewhere behind there,
the dinner crowd already gone and me the last to leave,
the closing time at the buffet is the thing I most believe,
in, the final plate at the closing hour’s right,
closing time at the buffet is the best way to close the night.

Come Home Whole
She pressed her palms against my chest before the taxi came around,
said she wanted to feel my heartbeat so she would know the solid sound,
she did not ask about the mission and she did not ask the odds,
she just held on to the rhythm like a woman holds to God.

I said I would write her every week which lasted maybe four,
and after that the letters got too heavy with the war,
so I sent the lighter things: the weather and the food,
and kept the darker inventory somewhere in my blood.

Come home whole, come home whole,
she said that like it was the only thing she would ever need,
come home whole, bring back your soul,
do not leave the living parts of you out there beneath the weeds,
come home whole, come home whole,
she is at the window every evening counting what I owe,
come home whole, I am trying, God, I am trying to come home whole.

The transport touched the tarmac and I felt the landing hard,
and I counted up the pieces like a man assessing scars,
I had all my fingers and my vision and my stride,
but I left about a quarter of the person that I tried.

She met me at the doorway and she pressed her palms again,
and I let her take the inventory like she had done back then,
she said you feel a little different and I said I know I do,
she said different is not broken and we would work it through.

Come home whole, come home whole,
she said that like it was the only thing she would ever need,
come home whole, bring back your soul,
do not leave the living parts of you out there beneath the weeds,
come home whole, come home whole,
she is at the window every evening counting what I owe,
come home whole, I am trying, God, I am trying to come home whole.

Come Over

Two words on the screen at eleven at night,
Blue glow of the phone and my blood running bright,
Come over, she typed, and the period at the end,
Hit harder than anything a full paragraph could send

I am already pulling on my boots before the second thought,
Already checking mirrors, already overwrought,
With the anticipation of her doorway and her hall,
Come over, two words, and I answered the call

Come over, the holiest two-word prayer,
Come over, and I am already there,
In my head, in her hallway, in the dark of her front door,
Come over, and I am not keeping score

The drive is fourteen minutes if I take the highway clean,
Fourteen minutes of imagining the space between and between,
Her opening the door in what she sleeps in, warm and messed,
Come over, and I am already undressed

I pull up to her curb and the porch light flickers twice,
Her signal that the door is open, do not knock, be precise,
About the quiet, about the entry, about the leaving before dawn,
Come over, and every rule I had is gone

Comedy at the Funeral

I did the eulogy and I did it as a bit, more or less,
my uncle would have wanted nothing less than full-on comedic address,
he was a man who laughed at everything including his own decline,
and he left instructions that the service should be entirely fine.

I opened with his worst joke, which he told at every gathering,
the one about the priest and the badminton and the blathering,
and the room erupted, half in sorrow and half in genuine release,
and my uncle would have said, that’s exactly it, that’s the peace.

Comedy at the funeral, the most honest use of laughter,
comedy at the funeral, every memory after,
comedy at the funeral, because what else do you say,
when the one who made you laugh the most has gone away.

The crying and the laughing at a funeral are cousins,
they live in the same house and they come out in their dozens,
when someone names the thing that everyone already feels,
and the laughter at the loss is part of how the loss heals.

My uncle left this world mid-laugh, apparently, the records say,
he was watching something on television one ordinary day,
and found something funnier than he could physically endure,
and the last thing he ever did was laugh himself unsure.

Comedy Is Not a Defense

I used comedy as a defense for most of my adult years,
deployed it as a shield between the feelings and the fears,
made a joke before the moment could become too real,
and kept the comedy between me and what I’d have to feel.

Comedy is not a defense, as I eventually learned,
when the defense kept working and the actual thing still burned,
when the joke was perfect but the wound was still wide open,
and the laughter was the thing that kept me from the token.

Comedy is not a defense, it is the thing itself,
comedy is not a defense, it belongs on the shelf,
of things worth doing for their own specific sake,
not as protection from the thing you’re afraid to take.

The comedian who uses comedy to keep the world at bay,
is the comedian who never has a fully honest day,
and the audience can tell the difference between the real,
and the joke that’s a wall between the comedian and the feel.

I stopped using comedy as armor around thirty-five,
let some things be actually terrible and still arrive,
and the comedy improved dramatically when I allowed,
the actual feeling to be present and out loud.

Couch Archaeology

Found a receipt from three years back between the cushions,
which raises some important and archaeological conclusions
about the sediment of time and how it layers in the couch —
the stratigraphy of not caring is a scientific grouch.

Down below the receipt there’s a pen that stopped working in 2021,
which was the year I also stopped working in a similar run —
the pen and I have a shared history of getting stuck
and sitting in the couch until somebody ran out of luck.

Couch archaeology, dig the layers of not caring,
couch archaeology, excavate what’s been despairing —
the artifacts tell the story of a man who used to move,
couch archaeology, and this cushion’s got the groove.

There’s a potato chip from a bag I don’t remember opening,
which the forensics suggest occurred somewhere in the soaping
and rinsing of the year where all the weeks became the same week —
the chip is a time capsule from the depths of technique.

I found the TV remote I reported missing in the fall,
under the couch, beside the charging cable, next to all
the evidence of my domestic archaeology of drift —
the remote was there the whole time and I didn’t know to lift.

A birthday card somebody sent that I forgot to open sits
between the cushion and the armrest like a relic that emits
its social obligation quietly in the dark —
I opened it: “thinking of you, hope you’re well” — that’s the mark

of a person who is actively investing in my wellbeing,
which is more than I’m currently investing and worth seeing —
I put it on the table with the intent to respond,
which is more forward momentum than I’ve had in a while, so bond.

My buddy texted: “you good?” and I texted back “yeah totally”
which is the standard modern answer to the standard query —
totally is doing a lot of heavy lifting in that sentence,
it’s carrying the weight of several years of non-repentance.

I’ve been meaning to go to the gym since it was cold and is now hot,
meaning to call my brother back since — well, I forgot
exactly when he called but the voicemail says he’s good
and I’m good and we’re both good in the way good people should.

The couch has received me so many times it’s stopped expecting
anything from the reunion — no fanfare or inspecting,
just the accommodation of a surface to a weight —
the couch and I have reached a comfortable non-aggression state.

I could reorganize my life, I could restructure the whole deal,
I could unearth the person in the sediment who used to feel
the urgency of forward and the pressure of the possible —
but the couch archaeology suggests that’s not quite accessible.

The layers tell the story, and the story goes like this:
a man sat down to rest and then discovered that the bliss
of not getting up was better than the bliss of going out —
and the couch received the verdict without any specific doubt.

The artifacts are catalogued, the dig has reached its bottom —
the oldest layer is a man who used to have a rhythm —
now the layers above him are the layers of the settled,
and the archaeologist lies back in the couch, unnetled.

The next layer will be me, lying here in the soft sediment,
a future archaeologist’s find — the evidence, the artifact
of a man who sat and watched the layers form above his station —
the most comfortable dig site in the world, this excavation.

Future archaeologists will date the layers by the brand names —
the specific snack wrappers and the specific claim-fames
of the consumer culture of my era, carefully preserved —
“here lived a man who sat” will be the finding unreserved.

The grant proposal writes itself: “subject showed consistent patterns
of sedentary habitation across multiple decades — matters
of archaeological significance include the remote and the receipt —
the subject appears content” — and the finding is complete.

Crawlspace Birthday

I was five when I found the crawlspace party
Behind the furnace, past the pipes
A circle of small chairs
Around a table set for guests

Paper plates and paper cups
Party hats and noisemakers
A birthday cake with no candles
And a banner that said my full designation

Not a surprise party, nobody was hiding
The chairs were empty but recently occupied
The cake was fresh, the frosting still soft
And one slice had already been eaten

Crawlspace birthday, the party below
Where the guests arrive through the dirt
Crawlspace birthday, the celebration
For the child who lives beneath the child

I told my parents and they tore it down
Threw away the plates, collapsed the chairs
Swept the crawlspace clean
And locked the access door

But on my sixth birthday
The party was set up again
Same table, same chairs, one more place setting
And two slices of cake eaten

Every year another setting added
Every year another slice consumed
The crawlspace growing the party
With the patience of geology

I went back at forty
The house had new owners
They let me look in the crawlspace
With a flashlight and a crooked smile

Forty place settings
Forty eaten slices from a fresh cake
And in the center of the table
Forty candles

All burning
In a space with no oxygen
Below a house with no children
Celebrating something
That has been counting
Every year
I tried to forget

Cryptkeeper’s Day Job

Punches in with a shovel and a groan, clocking time in a maggot suit
Got a title tag stitched on bones and a thermos full of unmarked fruit
He files the dead by personality type—narcissists on aisle three
Puts the creeps in customer service and grins while he sips his tea
Monday’s a skull-polish special, Tuesday’s for undead returns
Wednesday’s HR with banshees—another ghost that never learns
There’s paperwork in blood and ash, but it pays the dental plan
Though he hasn’t had a tooth since ’93 and can’t stand Karen from the van
Yeah heat’s your underpaid, overqualified, six-feet-down blue-collar fiend
Running a morgue with a punchline smirk and hands that still come clean
Says death ain’t scary, it’s the living that give him ulcers and dread
He’d rather serve zombies lunch than deal with the living undead
He’s got a haunted locker full of notes from interns long since rotted
Keeps a poster of Elvira up—claims it’s ‘for morale,’ though it’s knotted
Every Friday’s a seance happy hour, and every spirit whines the same
“No one mourned me right,” they chant,
“and my crypt’s spelled wrong on the title”
Some dream of beaches, he dreams of budget cuts and a hellhound-free commute
But every time a fresh stiff rolls in, he finds his groove in the brute

Yeah heat’s your underpaid, overqualified, six-feet-down blue-collar fiend
Running a morgue with a punchline smirk and hands that still come clean
Says death ain’t scary, it’s the living that give him ulcers and dread
He’d rather serve zombies lunch than deal with the living undead
403 coming: grief, masks, or end-times —
your apocalypse-fueled beauty up next. Let’s burn it down.
403. Ashes in the Kitchen Sink
The lasagna she never finished still haunts the Tupperware
Her hair on the pillow, her scent on the robe, like she’s just le getting there
The mail still comes with her title, like the world didn’t get the news
And I water her plants like a ritual I’m too numb to refuse
I left her toothbrush in the holder, like maybe death forgot a step
But the mirror’s cold, the house too still, and silence never slept
Our pictures crack from the inside out, I swear they breathe some nights
And the ghosts that live in light switches whisper half her rights
There’s ashes in the kitchen sink, and no one cleaned the drain
Her coffee cup’s still half-full—like I’m clinging to the stain
It’s not about moving on, it’s just I don’t know how to quit
When the love of your life dies mid-sentence and you still sit in the shit
Her voicemail’s a fucking time machine, I play it just to hear her tone
And for five sweet seconds, I forget that I’m alone
But the fridge still hums, the clock still ticks, and grief don’t take a break
It just wraps around your bones like a leash you didn’t make
I scream air, God, her, then apologize like a child
But the universe don’t answer back—it just stares and lets you go wild

There’s ashes in the kitchen sink, and no one cleaned the drain
Her coffee cup’s still half-full—like I’m clinging to the stain
It’s not about moving on, it’s just I don’t know how to quit
When the love of your life dies mid-sentence and you still sit in the shit
404’s next. You know what that means: strippers,
sluts, panties, and filth. Let’s make ‘em blush.
404. Lipstick and the Lost & Found
She keeps condoms in her clutch, not receipts, not regrets
Panties in her purse like trophies from fucks she hasn’t even had yet
Glitter stuck to her collarbone, whiskey gloss on her thighs
She walks like a crime scene—fuck me pumps and blackout eyes
The pole don’t own her, the stage don’t faze her —
she hunts from the shadows near the bar
She doesn’t strip for the bills, she strips to leave you with a scar
Runs a room with a pelvic tilt and a tongue sharp enough to brand
She’ll let you taste heaven through hell, then vanish with your wedding band
Lipstick in the lost and found, bras on the bathroom floor
She moans like sin on purpose and leaves you begging for more
She ain’t a dream, she’s a detour—short skirt, long night, no brakes
And if you think she loves you?—she’s already gone with your soul and the shakes
Her heels tap like countdowns, her glance sets off alarms
She’s danced on heartbreaks and grave plots, never once without her charms
Men call her sinner, call her muse, call her le and never forget her title
But she calls them exits, toys, mistakes—and plays them just the same
She fucked her way past shame and lit it up with every stroke
She’s not yours, she’s not his, she’s the punchline to every vow broke

Lipstick in the lost and found, bras on the bathroom floor
She moans like sin on purpose and leaves you begging for more
She ain’t a dream, she’s a detour—short skirt, long night, no brakes
And if you think she loves you?—she’s already gone with your soul and the shakes
405 next—smut, madness, or isolion. Either way,
it’s about to get raw. Say the word.
405. Mirror’s Got Teeth
The mirror cracked on a Tuesday night, right where my face used to smile
I’ve been shaving around the split, pretending I’m not on trial
The version of me that stares back now blinks slower than I do
And whispers things in a deeper voice, like it knows what I’ve been through
It waits until I’m brushing teeth to smirk and mouth some curse
Then shrinks the room with every blink like it’s folding in reverse
The walls breathe, the faucet laughs, and my own hands feel detached
I touch my skin and it recoils—like a stranger never mched
The mirror’s got teeth and it bites like truth
Chews up my title and spits out youth
It’s not about fear, it’s about decay
When your own reflection wants you to stay
I black out on the floor some nights and wake up in the tub
With claw marks on the tile and dreams that hum like a war drum’s thud
I stopped inviting people in—can’t risk them seeing the cracks
They might cch a glimpse of the mirror man and never come back
I used to check my hair, now I check if heat’s still there
And he always is—smiling wide with the somewhat stare that dares

The mirror’s got teeth and it bites like truth
Chews up my title and spits out youth
It’s not about fear, it’s about decay
When your own reflection wants you to stay
406’s next—straight from “My List.” We’re talking dark truths
and no fucking filters. Let’s keep it brutal.
406. The Chemistry of a First Touch
Her hand brushed mine in the stairwell—four seconds, maybe five
And I swear to every dark god alive, I nearly forgot how to drive
Skin on skin lit a fuse in my veins I never knew I wired
She smelled like swe and want and stormclouds—and fuck, I was inspired
We didn’t speak, didn’t need to—our pupils fucked before we did
She leaned in close like temption knew my title and slid beneath my lid
Unchanging cracked between our arms like the air had teeth and mood swings
My knees gave out and she caught me with a grin sharp enough to sting
It’s not lust, not love, it’s the spark that fucks your spine
Like dopamine’s drunk cousin dancing naked down your line
that first touch didn’t ask, didn’t warn—it detoned trust
Left me raw, left me twitching, jacked me straight into the dust
Ler she bit my lip and whispered “science is real,” then kissed my brain
Her fingertips wrote dirty equions across every nerve and flame
We weren’t built to last, just to explode, and goddamn, we did it right
One touch, one charge, one mad spark that rewired my fucking night
No sweet nothings, no titles, just her hand—radiion with a smile
And a look that said “you’re mine for now,” with hunger stretched a mile

It’s not lust, not love, it’s the spark that fucks your spine
Like dopamine’s drunk cousin dancing naked down your line
that first touch didn’t ask, didn’t warn—it detoned trust
Left me raw, left me twitching, jacked me straight into the dust
407 next—ballad time. Gritty, emotional,
and built to bleed. Let’s rip one from the heart.
407. Last Smoke the Motel 6
She lit a cigarette like a prayer with no god on the line
The motel bed was stripped, the ashtray full, her body wasting time
I wched from the doorway, suitcase gripped like a lie
She didn’t cry, didn’t flinch—just exhaled like she meant goodbye
We’d burned through summers like they owed us blood and rent
Swore we’d get out of this dump, but stayed and called it content
Her lips were cracked from too much sun, her laugh wore secondhand pain
And when she smiled, it was warpaint—never joy, just what remained
Last smoke the Motel 6, nothing left to say but breath
Two ghosts sharing one last drag before we kill wh’s left
We could’ve been anything, but we settled for this
A bed, a burn, a flicker of what we swore we’d never miss
She said she might head west or maybe just vanish in town
I knew damn well she’d circle the drain ‘til it pulled her down
We were lovers made of splinters, too jagged to ever fit
But that night, in the unchanging silence, we finally fucking quit
She offered me the last puff like a dare, like a pact
And I took it—knowing we’d never take anything else back

Last smoke the Motel 6, nothing left to say but breath
Two ghosts sharing one last drag before we kill wh’s left
We could’ve been anything, but we settled for this
A bed, a burn, a flicker of what we swore we’d never miss
408’s on deck. Back to sleazy fun, filth,
and fire. Say the word and I’ll keep swingin’.
408. Dirty Halo

CTRL + Fear (RBH) x Every Villain Has an Origin Story (Mashup)

They spoon-feed terror with every morning scroll,
Fingers smudge glass while newsreels unroll—
Every headline calibrated to spike a pulse,
Veins flooded with death tolls, urgency convulsed.

I was just a kid under blankets,
screen glow burning a hole through the dark in my head,
Found out early if I hit the right nerve I could drown out the kitchen fights, play dead,
By the time they were drawing hearts in notebooks
and practicing “forever” after school,
I was already chasing blackout switches, burning through strangers like fuel.

“Click here for panic, click to cry,”
Skip to the next, never question why,
The faces disappear, names lost to the feed,
Mourning performed, then buried in speed.

They sell lust like soft lights
and slow hands, a tidy moral when the credits roll,
They don’t show shaking in a shower at noon,
trying to scrub the guilt off your soul.

Terror is binge-worthy, curated for you—
A season of dread with sponsors on cue.
You queue up anxiety in high-def, crisp and clean,
Algorithm worship at the altar of the unseen.

Fast-forward: that bar, ring on my finger,
your perfume cutting through my “better man” lies,
You laughed once and every promise I made to myself curled up and died,
Heat like a car crash in a bathroom stall,
phone lighting up my leg like a flare I wouldn’t read,
Turned the sound off, bit your shoulder hard,
thought: if this totals my life, let it bleed.

Stats masquerade as prophecy, numbers incite,
Fear is packaged, sponsored, sold by the byte.
Obey the ticker, trust no sun—
Every warning resets what you thought you’d won.

Every villain has an origin story,
mine’s written in sweat on motel walls that never asked for my sins,
Every time I gasped “never again,” my hands were reaching for the next wrong door, the next skin,
Saints don’t come here, not to these sheets,
not to this couch where the ghosts pile cheap,
I keep saying I’m better now, then some devil in boots walks in,
And drags me in deep.

CTRL + Fear—watch as the masses obey,
Peace is bartered on screens that prey.
Paralyze the mind, freeze the will,
Lock the face behind a pill.
Every device is a prophet of doom,
Panic installed in the safest room.

There was a stretch I stopped learning names,
called everybody “babe” just to keep the story straight,
Body count on the sheets, ghosts in the cotton,
stains in my head I couldn’t erase or abate,
I slept my way through friend groups and bands,
turned birthdays into breakups with a text at two,
Said I was freeing them from boredom;
truth is I wanted proof they’d risk it all too.

The machine is God, the virus king,
You pray for relief while the sirens sing.
Stay inside, stay fed, stay numb—
The cure for disease is to never become
Anything dangerous, anything new,
Fear is the leash and you wear it true.

Then there was you, the matching fault line,
the relapse in eyeliner, “you up?” burning my screen,
You walked past in a crowded room
and every sane thought died, stripped down to the obscene,
You liked me ugly, liked me selfish, pinned to my worst, hands against the wall,
Scheduling disasters like shifts—hotel keys,
“just one more time,” you, me, and the fall.

News distills into narcotic weight,
Every “update” another clickbait bait.
You scorn the lie but still comply,
Addicted to terror, can’t deny.
Facts are irrelevant—only panic returns,
You don’t fight infection—you forward the thread as it burns.

We could’ve walked away, blocked each other, grown up, let this fire finally go,
Instead we kept hitting that same red button just to watch it glow.

Every villain has an origin story, ours is scratched in lipstick
and numbers we should’ve deleted by dawn,
You were my dirty little apocalypse,
one more night with you and every city in my head was gone,
This is thirst with a body count,
not some cute sin you laugh about over brunch or beer,
I keep swearing I’m done and you text “come say your prayers,”
And I’m already here.

Nobody asked who wrote the rules,
Just floated inside the fear-shaped pools.
I watched your code and saw it bend,
Terror’s your fix when hope finds its end.
Obedience is engineered with a single click,
Rage or retreat, just choose your pick.

CTRL + Fear—reboot, restart,
Hope now locked behind passworded hearts.
You do not rebel, just retweet despair,
Freedom dissolves, but nobody cares.
This isn’t news—it’s a chain you choose,
Smile for the system, consent to lose.

Every villain has an origin story,
mine’s a highlight reel of bad decisions, low light, sound too high,
Every “I love you” I meant got buried under “don’t tell anyone”
and “we can’t let this die,”
Saints don’t come here, not to these rooms,
not to this car where we cut one more piece off our lives,
If lust is a chain, it’s welded in my throat and wrapped in your thighs—

CTRL + Fear—watch as the masses obey,
You text “one more tim

CTRL + Fear (RBH)
They spoon-feed terror with every morning scroll,
fingers smudge glass while newsreels unroll—
every headline calibrated to spike a pulse,
veins flooded with death tolls, urgency convulsed.

Click here for panic. Click to cry.
Skip to the next. Never question why
the faces disappear, names lost to the feed,
mourning performed, then buried in speed.

Terror is binge-worthy, curated for you—
a season of dread with sponsors on cue.
You queue up anxiety in high-def, crisp and clean,
algorithm worship at the altar of the unseen.

Stats masquerade as prophecy, numbers incite.
Fear is packaged, sponsored, sold by the byte.
Obey the ticker. Trust no sun.
Every warning resets what you thought you’d won.

The sky is toxic. The stranger is sick.
Every day, a new brand of panic to pick.
CTRL + Fear—watch as the masses obey.
Peace is bartered on screens that prey.

Paralyze the mind. Freeze the will.
Lock the face behind a pill.
Every device a prophet of doom,
panic installed in the safest room.

The machine is God, the virus king.
You pray for relief while the sirens sing.
Stay inside. Stay fed. Stay numb.
The cure for disease is to never become

anything dangerous. Anything new.
Fear is the leash and you wear it true.
News distills into narcotic weight,
every update another clickbait bait.

You scorn the lie but still comply,
addicted to terror, can’t deny.
Opinion wars blare in hypnotic churn—
facts are irrelevant, only panic returns.

Belief replaced with conditioned dread.
You don’t fight infection—you forward the thread.
Nobody asked who wrote the rules,
just floated inside the fear-shaped pools.

I watched your code and saw it bend.
Terror’s your fix when the dopamine runs dry.
Obedience engineered with a single click—
rage or retreat, just choose your pick.

Freedom erodes with every share.
You mistake chains for public care.
CTRL + Fear. Reboot. Restart.
Hope locked behind passworded hearts.

You do not rebel, just retweet despair.
Freedom dissolves, but nobody cares.
This isn’t news—it’s a chain you choose.
Smile for the system. Consent to lose.

Daddy’s Back from Vegas
He came through the screen door at a forward lean with someone else’s fragrance on his throat,
Said he hit the jackpot and then listed what the jackpot cost at length to note,
Mom was horizontal on the sofa with her own ongoing pharmaceutical project,
And I was thirteen, operating a crash course in what affection means in context.

He dropped the Rolex on the table like it settled something fundamental here,
Asked if I’d been practicing my pitching arm — the kind of question fathers engineer,
Said “Someday, boy, you’ll understand all this — the flash, the charm, the play,”
But what I understood was: love is what remains when everything else runs away.

—

Daddy’s back from Vegas with his collar stained and his promises all hot,
He loves the family concept in the abstract but he can’t say what we’ve got,
The chips he cashed in won’t explain what three weeks of silence costs a son,
Daddy’s back from Vegas — that’s about the size of what he’s done.

—

By fifteen I could catalogue each iteration of his homecoming routine,
The souvenir, the record, the apology, the space between,
He’d sit at the kitchen table with a bottle and a monologue of youth,
And somewhere in the third hour, he’d get close enough to something like the truth.

He’s not a villain — I spent fifteen years trying to distribute blame correctly,
He’s just a man who loved the road more than the things that waited, indirectly,
I’ve got his hands and his jawline and his talent for the exit and return,
And I’m twenty-eight now hoping that I’m learning what he never chose to learn.

Daddy’s Poison
He kept a flask in the side table drawer and a belt on the hook beside the door
Preached about sin with bourbon breath, dragged me through his brand of penance and death
Ma left the house when I was small with nothing but her shoes and her resolve
Left me to wrestle the devil in a cheap church suit and a grudge to solve
He called me a curse he had to beat clean, told the county I was always mean
But the bones grew steel where the bruises settled in and spread
I learned to bury the hurt and never reach for what he said
I stacked my exits like I stacked my scars — counted windows, counted bars

Daddy’s poison runs deep, but I never let it win
I wear these wounds like warpaint, not shame laid on my skin
I’m the storm that he built when he tried to split a child at the seam
Now I walk like vengeance wrapped in a cold, unholy dream

He lit the fuse, I became the blast — traded panic for plans when the night hit fast
His pious alibis are ashes I no longer follow or breathe
He’s rotting in his righteousness while I own the smoke that he bequeathed
I started collecting exits like some people collect certainty
I counted every window, every gap between his brutality

I ain’t forgiving and I ain’t forgetting — I branded these bones with every threat he kept setting
I’m done with the apology tour, I’m done with the blood on his floor
He turned his poison into my fuel, and I turned his fuel into war

Dark Joke in a Dark Room

The wake—his brother standing in the kitchen
and me leaning close with the stitching
of the joke he would have appreciated,
the dark bit, the calibrated
wrong-time punchline for the right-time room,
and his brother laughed in the gloom
of the kitchen of the dead man’s house—
and we were both alive. The loudspeaker.

Dark joke in a dark room—the necessary
laugh, the contemporary
grace of the terrible funny.
The dark joke: the money
of the still-here in the worst hour.
Dark joke in a dark room: my power
to acknowledge the bad thing on two
sides at once. Dark joke: true.

You laugh because it’s honest—
the dark joke is the modest
acknowledgment of the terrible
and also: comedic. The terrible
is terrible and also
the absurdity below
the surface, visible from the exact
wrong angle. The dark joke: fact.

I make them at the worst times—
the clinical waiting room, the rhymes
of the two-AM hospital.
The dark funny: the surgical
laugh that nobody prescribed.
The dark humor: inscribed
in the still-here, still-breathing.
The dark joke in the dark room: living.

Dead Air—The Year The World Forgot To Breathe (Covid-19 Pandemic, 2020– )

A city isn’t supposed to echo like an abandoned cathedral,
every footstep swallowed by sirens or the hiss of empty streets,

We learned the language of panic—blue gloves, shuttered windows,
masked faces passing by with eyes that never meet,

Shops boarded like teeth punched out of a grin,
playgrounds taped in yellow, swings moving only when the wind gets mean,

Every morning, the news drips a fresh tally—coffins stacked,
nurses’ hands split and raw, the world turned quarantine, green

Doctors in plastic armor fighting invisible tides,
their voices cracked behind fogged shields and exhausted prayers,

Grandparents vanish into hospital wards, never seen again
but as a frozen smile on a smudged phone held up to blank stares.

(Chorus)

Who started it? Who planned it? Who lied first—what’s it prove?

When you’re counting the dead by the truckload, what good is the truth?

Conspiracies swirl like ash in the air, every answer’s a wound reopened,

But when you’re the one left breathing, the blame don’t change what’s broken.

It’s not who unleashed it, or who played god with the data,

It’s the silence after the sirens that screams louder than a traitor.

You can dig for the reason till your fingers bleed into the floor—

But the dead don’t argue, and the living don’t laugh anymore.

Every home a bunker, every cough an accusation,
the air itself transformed into a threat,

The clock on the wall is stuck at “Maybe Tomorrow,”
and tomorrow comes with one less face at the table—shame, regret,

Children tracing handprints on glass,
longing for grandparents locked in care homes,

Families in driveways blinking back tears as hearses idle,
engines humming hymns for those who died alone,

Weddings postponed, funerals livestreamed to a row of black rectangles,
every loss pixelated, every goodbye a digital lie,

Even grief denied its rituals —
ashes in cardboard boxes mailed out to addresses too stunned to cry.

The grocery store shelves picked clean as bones after a storm,
neighbors lining up six feet apart,

Eyes darting over masks, paranoia bred in silence —
strangers side-eyeing each other like plague rats in a shopping cart,

Birthday cakes devoured over Zoom,
lovers separated by counties, borders, or pure fear,

Street musicians silenced, theaters shuttered,
only the moon left to play for itself—no applause, no cheer,

You learn to tell time by the number of ambulances screaming down boulevards no one dares to cross,

And in the thrum of ventilators, you measure how many promises,
plans, and dreams this plague has cost.

Doctors fell with the rest—heroes for a headline,
then left to ration masks, to triage hope,

While nurses scribbled last words for families too scared or too banned to visit,
begging fate for a rope,

Bodies loaded in freezer trucks—no flowers,
no hymns, just body bags zipped up on a side street,

School kids staring at screens, learning algebra and isolation in the same seat,

The virus didn’t care about borders,
or politics, or prayers shouted at a TV screen,

It crept through hallways, cribs, boardrooms,
refugee camps, it found every crack in the dream.

Somewhere a violinist played for empty balconies,
somewhere a mother slept in a hospital gown and never woke,

Each headline just a number, but every number a name —
this is how history becomes a cruel joke,

We made memes of the horror, banged pots on balconies,
then closed our curtains on neighbors lost,

The world shrank to the size of a window, and everyone counted the cost,

The ghosts linger in ventilators, in the dust on wedding rings,
in the missed graduations and unopened envelopes—

If you survived, you’re marked by absence;
if you lost, you’re stitched together by borrowed hopes.

Maybe there’s no lesson except the scars,
no silver lining, no “after” that’s the same,

We light candles on windowsills, mumble names to the dark,
and try not to look for someone to blame,

The pandemic didn’t end, it just faded into noise—another trauma on the shelf,

But some things we’ll never forget: the hush of city streets,
the sirens, the loneliness, the slow collapse of self,

And in the silence that follows every alarm,
every funeral, every shuttered door and muted song,

The living clutch what they can—memories, masks, regrets,
the knowledge that “normal” was always a lie all along.

============================================================

Dead Train In The Tunnel

Car was packed shoulder to shoulder when the lights blinked weak and died
Metal screamed itself to silence in the middle of the underground ride
Somebody cursed in the fucking darkness, somebody laughed it off too loud
Heat rose up from the track like a secret under the crowd

I pulled out my phone on reflex, bright screen my little shield
Watched the battery drop percent by percent like a slow yawning field
No signal on the status bar, just that empty mocking frame
All my little escape hatches gone in a wire and flame

Stuck on a dead train in the tunnel, nowhere left to run
Face full of strangers, miles away from the sun
When that last bar on the screen finally slips away
All that’s left is your thoughts and the rest of your fucking day

Guy in the corner keeps hitting refresh on a frozen app
Girl in worn-out sneakers fighting tears in her lap
Couple arguing softly over rent and who’s to blame
Old man humming something ancient, not caring about the blame

Message from the boss half-typed, “I’ll be late today”
But the signal never grabbed it, just hung there in gray
I pictured his office window, his watch and narrowed eyes
Funny how a broken subway feels like career goodbye

Stuck on a dead train in the tunnel, nowhere left to run
Face full of strangers, miles away from the sun
When that last bar on the screen finally slips away
All that’s left is your pulse and the rest of your fucking day

Emergency lights flicker on, dim red down the line
Makes every tired face look like a warning sign
Overhead speaker crackles with another canned excuse
While time drips off the ceiling like a rusted fuse

Kid starts asking questions no grown-up wants to hear
“Can we get out and walk, is the train gonna stay here”
His mother fakes a smile, says “We’re fine, just slow”
Her knuckles white on the handle where the worry won’t let go

When we finally lurched forward, whole car let out a breath
Like we’d all outrun some small invisible death
My phone died at the station just as we saw the light
Left me staring at my reflection like a stranger in white

Stuck on a dead train in the tunnel, nowhere left to run
Face full of strangers, miles away from the sun
When that last bar on the screen finally slips away
You find out what you’re worth in the dark with no display

Tag
Turnstiles spit us upward into sirens and noise
But I still hear that quiet where the world lost its toys

Death Wears Your Mothers Face
Death Wears Your Mother’s Face

It wasn’t dramatic. That’s the part
no mythology prepares you for,
no pamphlet they hand you
in the hospital hallway on a Tuesday.

It was a Tuesday.
Death prefers the unremarkable —
the day nobody circles,
the one without a name worth saving.

She was eating toast.
The marmalade brand she’d bought
since before you were a name she’d chosen from a book of them.
And then she wasn’t there.
And the toast was still there.
And the Tuesday.
And you.

The paramedics were kind
in the efficient way of people
for whom this moment is also just a Tuesday.
Someone handed you her reading glasses from the nightstand
and you held them like a grenade
with the pin already through.

The neighbors sent three casseroles, overlapping.
You ate one cold at midnight standing up
because sitting felt like a decision
you weren’t ready to make without her input.
The other two stayed in the refrigerator for four months.
You weren’t ready.
The refrigerator wasn’t ready.
Nothing is on any schedule anymore
and that’s somehow her most lasting contribution.

She organized everything —
the filing, the birthdays, the knowing
which drawer held the thing you needed.
And now the thing is in one of fourteen drawers
in a house that’s breathing differently
since she vacated.
All her objects still here.
None of her.
Everything she touched.
Still warm almost.
Still.

The grief counselor says the waves get further apart
and you believe her
the way you believe weather forecasts —
directionally accurate,
locally devastating,
impossible to prepare for regardless of the warning.
Worst on random Wednesdays.
No occasion to hang it on.
Nothing in the calendar to justify the weight of it.
Nothing but the rain
and the way you miss her specifically
when it rains.

She was Julie to people who knew her at twenty,
Jewels to her sister,
Mom to you —
three women wearing the same face
and you only knew the last one.
You only just now know that.
The knowing is a specific grief
without a name in any language you can find.

Six weeks out you laughed at something real
and stopped immediately
because the stopping was automatic
and the automatic was guilt.
Twelve weeks out you saved her number as “Mom (gone)”
because deleting felt like violence
and keeping it felt like a lie
and neither option was something she prepared you for.

Four months out a stranger reaches for the higher shelf
and your whole nervous system reboots in aisle seven
while the fluorescent lights do what fluorescent lights do —
nothing,
just keep being fluorescent,
indifferent,
Tuesday.

Death wears your mother’s face in the grocery store on Saturday
when someone reaches for the higher shelf her way.
Death wears your mother’s face in the birthday card
you find already written for next year,
already signed,
already sealed,
already left in the drawer.
Death isn’t robes and scythes and gothic grandeur —
death is Tuesday, marmalade, and toast.
And fourteen drawers.
And reading glasses in your hand.
And the question of what a person does
with someone else’s prescription
going forward
into all the Tuesdays
she won’t see.

The people holding the shape of your world in place
are doing it invisibly,
without invoice,
and you won’t know the structural load
until the carrying stops.

Grief isn’t a feeling —
it’s a climate.
You don’t feel it like cold or anger.
You live in it like a city.
It’s the air quality.
It’s what the sky looks like
from your window at your particular hour.

Somewhere in the next year you’ll think of her
and it’ll be warm before it’s sharp.
The warm won’t mean the sharp is gone.
It means you’ve built something around it.
Weight you’ve learned the shape of.
Weight that proves she was real
and real things leave real holes when they go.

She was here.
The toast was here.
The card already written for a birthday she knew she’d miss
but wrote anyway —
That’s what she was.
Practical.
Loving.
Impossibly ahead of you
as always.
Even now.
Even gone.

Four months and three days.
You threw out the casseroles last week.
That felt like something.
Tuesday.
Of course it was Tuesday.

Decibel Record

She downloaded an app.
A sound meter.
Put it on the nightstand.
And said let us see how loud I actually get.

The baseline was conversation at about sixty decibels,
By the time I had her warmed up she was at the level,
Of a vacuum cleaner, seventy-five and climbing,
When I hit the right spot the timing.

Decibel record, she peaked at a hundred and fourteen,
Decibel record, the most obscene,
Number that a pleasure-related sound has ever registered,
Decibel record, she blistered,
The speaker on her phone and cracked the screen protector,
Decibel record, the sound collector.

She hit a hundred and two during foreplay alone,
My tongue between her legs made her groan,
At the volume of a chain saw, and when I slid inside her,
The app registered the cider,
Press of her voice at a hundred and eight, approaching danger,
Decibel record, nothing stranger.

Than a woman who can out-volume a rock concert with her orgasm,
She peaked at a hundred and fourteen, the chasm,
Between her indoor voice and her bedroom voice is forty decibels wide,
She screenshotted the result with pride,
And sent it to her group chat, said beat that if you can,
Decibel record, she is not a quiet woman or a quiet plan.

Demon Eater
I was raised on cracked pavement and the echo of a slamming door,
streetlight baptism, learned real fast what pain was for.
They fed us fear like doctrine, said behave, obey, repeat,
I learned how to bare my teeth before they even learned to speak.

I’ve got smoke in my lungs and a spine of stone,
every scar is a lesson that I paid for in bone.
They sold chains as protection, sold silence as peace,
I didn’t crawl out of hell just to beg for a place.

I don’t pray, I don’t kneel, I don’t wait to be saved,
I carve truth into stone with the fury I’ve made.
If you hear something breathing when the lights finally die,
that’s your gods learning fear for the first fucking time.

Chorus
Demon eater, I bite back when the void speaks
Demon eater, I feast on every lie you preach
Demon eater, your nightmares avoid my place
Demon eater, I survived what you couldn’t face

They built empires on graves and called it progress with pride,
dressed murder in language, let the innocent die.
Every skull they admired had blood in the seams,
I watched angels rot while monsters sold tickets.

I don’t want your forgiveness, keep your hands off my throat,
I’ve seen what you worship, I’ve read every note.
I learned how to breathe under pressure and flame,
every time you tried to break me, I remembered
I fucking remember

I’ve been buried in truth that was poisoned and bent,
still I clawed my way up with violent intent.
If you think I’m afraid of the dark that you feed,
you forgot who taught shadows exactly how to bleed.

Chorus
Demon eater, I bite back when the void speaks
Demon eater, I feast on every lie you preach
Demon eater, your nightmares avoid my place
Demon eater, I survived what you couldn’t face

I swallowed the hate, let it burn, grow, and evolve,
turned it into a loaded thing, sharp, venom with resolve.
I’ve stared down extinction and laughed at its stare,
I don’t fear what’s beneath me — it fears that I’m here.

Call me cursed, call me lost, call me wrong, call me damned,
I was forged in the fallout, not the comfort you planned.
Every demon you hid behind scripture and law
ends up choking on silence when I open my jaw.

You made me this, you fed the flame, you dug the pit,
I rose unchanged — no saviors, no leash, no throne to claim.
Just hunger and teeth and a world in flames,
I don’t need your heaven, I learned how to win without your light.

If the devil’s listening, tell him I’m getting closer,
you made a monster — I’m the creature of your dreams.
Call me cursed, call me lost, call me wrong, call me damned,
I was forged in the fallout, not the comfort you planned.

Chorus
Demon eater, I bite back when the void speaks
Demon eater, I feast on every lie you preach
Demon eater, no chains, no mercy, no peace
Demon eater, I don’t burn in hell — I feast

Derealization Blues

The world went two-dimensional around a month ago,
a backdrop painted in a workshop somewhere far below
the resolution I remember from before it shifted,
I touch the walls and feel the texture but I feel unlisted.
My hands are in the foreground doing all the usual things,
making coffee, signing checks, answering my calls and pings,
but there is a glass between me and the fact of my own hands,
a laminate between the doing and the understands.

I got the derealization blues, the world is made of paper,
I got the derealization blues, I will feel it later and later,
everything is lit too bright and everything is still,
I am standing in my life watching from the windowsill.

The doctor ran the standard tests and all came back routine,
she asked about my sleep and stress, my coffee and caffeine,
she said it sometimes happens and it tends to pass with time,
I nodded in the consultation room and felt the rhyme
of what I could not tell her: that the room itself was wrong,
that she was slightly too precise, the colors were too strong,
that I could see the grain of things if I looked at any length,
the world had lost its natural depth, its tensile strength.

I drove home through the neighborhood I have driven thirty years,
and every house was slightly wrong, the distances like gears
that were not quite meshing, everything too close and then too far,
the stop signs too intensely red, too perfectly a scar.
I started cataloguing what feels real against what does not:
the burn of coffee on my tongue, the cold tile cold as caught,
the specific smell of rain on pavement coming through the screen,
building back the texture of the world I used to mean.

Destruction in a Summer Dress
Destruction does not come in armor,
it comes in a summer dress.
It comes barefoot on warm concrete,
tan lines and a mess
of dark hair falling forward,
of bitten lips and brown eyes
that hold you down without touching,
that undress you in disguise.

Destruction is a woman tonight,
standing in my kitchen drinking my wine,
running her finger through the candle flame
like the heat is nothing, like the burn is fine.

She sat on my counter, legs swinging slow,
and the hem of her dress crept up with each swing,
and I stood there pretending to cook
while the wanting ate through everything.

She dipped her finger in the sauce
and sucked it clean while holding my stare,
and the sound of it, the wet little pop,
cracked the last of the rational air.

I burned the dinner and I did not care,
she jumped down from the counter and walked slow,
pressed her wine-stained lips against my neck,
and whispered something only the desperate know.

And I let the pan smoke and I let the alarm sing,
because destruction was standing in my space,
wearing nothing now but the candle light,
and I went willingly into her grip.

Digital Static

My thumb keeps turning disaster like pages in a book I never chose to understand
A child in rubble, a town on fire,
a blue-lit confession, and I don’t even move my hand
I should feel something heavy, something holy,
something that drags me to my knees in the sand
Yet my face stays neutral as paperwork,
and my pulse stays cheap, and I cannot swear it’s planned
The screen serves grief in bright little squares,
and my eyes drink it down like it’s bland
I watch the world bleed in high definition,
then scroll past it like a bargain brand
A clown in a suit sells outrage and mercy, both in one tap, both pre-scanned
And I sit in my chair like a witness for hire, paid in quiet, paid in demand
[Chorus] Digital static, tragic traffic, I keep rolling past the wreck
Digital static, nerve goes lax, and guilt just crawls around my neck
Digital static, I can’t react, I keep a calm face for effect
Digital static, world in pieces, and my heart won’t even check
A headline screams, a comment sneers, a prayer gets typed, a threat gets sent
Somebody begs for bread and shelter, and my silence acts like full consent
I used to flinch at human damage, now my mind treats horror like content
My spirit feels like cheap hotel art, hung up to please, then quickly bent
I feel the weight in other people, I see the tears, I hear the rant
Still my chest stays shut and stingy, like kindness got denied a grant
I’m not proud of this empty weather, I’m not claiming I’m “above” the ache
I just keep drifting, cool and careful, while the world keeps begging me to wake
[Chorus] Digital static, tragic traffic, I keep rolling past the wreck
Digital static, nerve goes lax, and guilt just crawls around my neck
Digital static, I can’t react, I keep a calm face for effect
Digital static, world in pieces, and my heart won’t even check
The feed turns war into a slideshow, turns famine into polite debate
Turns bodies into numbers rising, turns love into a target date
A polished man sells “thoughts and prayers” like souvenirs outside the gate
I taste the fraud, I see the racket, still I chew it, still I wait
My thumb is faithful to the motion, faithful as a habit learned in youth
My eyes keep taking in the damage, my mouth keeps failing at the truth
If someone asked me, face to face, I’d swear I care, and mean it too
Yet here I am, anesthetized, letting the nightmare stroll right through
[Chorus] Digital static, tragic traffic, I keep rolling past the wreck
Digital static, nerve goes lax, and guilt just crawls around my neck
Digital static, I can’t react, I keep a calm face for effect
Digital static, world in pieces, and my heart won’t even check
One day my screen will show my street, my name, my blood, my ruined door
And maybe then my body wakes up, maybe then I feel the score
Till then I sit in borrowed comfort, cheap-lit room, familiar floor
A man with all the facts in reach, and still no feeling at the core
If numbness is a quiet illness, it wears my face and pays my rent
It doesn’t roar, it doesn’t brag, it just keeps me absent, self-content
I want to break this calm addiction, want to feel the thing I meant
But my thumb keeps moving, moving, and my blank stare stays unbent

Dirty Halo (Part II)

She’s back from whatever bed she burned down last —
lipstick, lawsuits, borrowed light,
Got a rosary she traded for a handle of tequila in a dim bar she won’t find,
Boys with better judgment swore they’d learned from round one —
that was their mistake,
She came back prettier and twice as dangerous wearing someone else’s heartbreak.

Crossed herself before she lit the motel Bible on a dare with total ease,
Father Kevin lost his collar, and the congregation lost their properties,
Her confessions run past midnight
and the priest developed trouble sleeping sound,
She’s the kind of sanctified disaster that they build whole cities trying to knock down.

Dirty halo, bent in half and wearing it with pride,
Every man who thought he’d save her is now broke and pacified,
She kisses you like heaven’s burning and she means it — that’s the worst —
Dirty halo, holy water, and she’s always running first.

Got a sister in a convent and a brother in corrections — she’s the middle track,
She’s the last resort, the first mistake,
the reason men don’t answer calls back,
Left her college beau in Georgia with a diamond and a note that read “too slow,”
She’s the prayer they all stopped saying right before they didn’t want to go.

She said God made her sinful just to give the saints their narrative material,
Said the boys who call her broken never seen a woman that electrical,
I watched her blow a kiss at someone else’s husband without slowing down —
Dirty halo, bent and beautiful, and not about to pass it around.

She’ll ask you for a lighter and somehow leave with half your life,
No apology, no warning, just the permanent impression of her knife,
I got my own damn story and a scar to prove I was there,
Dirty halo — second time around and still I swear.

Dirty Little Apocalypse

You’re my dirty little apocalypse
one more night with you
and cities fall in my head

Every touch a warning
every gasp a tremor
every bruise another piece of life
I should have led

You hit my phone like a fire alarm
two-word text
that might as well be a red button
“come over”

You know damn well
what that does to my spine
how it makes me leave drinks
lies half-said
excuses I barely bother to cover

I turn up at your place
like an incoming wreck
hands already shaking
heart beating too fast
to be anything close to sane

You open the door in that look
that says you’re done pretending
this is about anything other
than setting fire to everything again

We don’t talk at first
just slam into each other
like the world really is ending
and we want to burn through
the last of our skin

Some part of me is counting
all the things this will cost
trust
sleep
self-respect
maybe more
but the rest is focused
on your body
my sin

You kiss me
like you’re trying to erase
every other mouth
I’ve ever let near me
like you want to tattoo your need
into my bones

I drag you closer
like I’m drowning
and your body is the only shore left
on this fucking beach

We call this “bad timing” in public
in private we call it what it is
the end of everything good
with one more kiss

We take each other apart
piece by piece
like we’re searching for proof
we’re still human
under all this habit and harm

Use teeth where tenderness should go
use grip where comfort should be
use each other’s bodies
as both weapon and charm

When it’s over
the room looks like a war happened
sheets twisted
pillows on the floor
lipstick on my chest
like a confession

You laugh out of breath
say “we’re terrible”
I say “yeah, but look how good
we are at this mess”

We should be talking about changing
we’re talking about
when we can do this again
scheduling the next disaster
like a shift at ten

There’s a choice
where I walk away
block your number
tell the truth
start over somewhere quiet
where the nights don’t taste like sin

We kill those versions every time
we hit “come over”
every time we lock the door
behind us
and leave the world outside to rot

We know exactly what we’re doing
we do it a lot

When everything finally breaks
and people ask
what the hell we were thinking
while we tore our worlds in half

We’ll look at each other
in the wreckage
still wanting
still knowing
the answer is simple as shit
we liked the way we kissed

Dirty Text Thread

Started at nine in the morning.
Innocent enough.
By noon we were
trading felonies.

She sent a picture of her hand inside her panties at her desk,
I sent back what I would do about it, nothing left to guess,
She typed one-handed for an hour while her coworkers walked past,
I described positions, pressures, rhythms, first to last.

Dirty text thread, four hundred messages of smut,
Dirty text thread, she could not keep her legs shut,
At her desk while reading every graphic thing I typed,
Dirty text thread, she was over-hyped,
By the time she got home she was halfway done already,
Dirty text thread, kept her wet and unsteady.

She walked through the door and threw the phone across the room,
Said I don’t need the text anymore, I need the man,
Of flesh and blood, get over here and do what you described,
At eleven-forty-two, the one that bribed,
Me into leaving work early, I said which one, she said all of them,
I said we will start at the top and work down to the stem.

I spent the evening fulfilling every promise made in text,
She checked them off like items on a list, what is next,
She said number seven, the one about the kitchen floor,
I dropped to my knees and gave her number seven and then four more.

Disruptive Innovation
The pitch was fifteen minutes. The first two were his story.
The founder needs that struggle arc before the deck
Gets to the traction slides. He described the wreck
Of his first company that died because of timing,
And the wreck of his second that failed despite the rhyming
Of the concept with the moment — and then the third,
Which is this, which is right, which is the product and the word.

It’s the TAM of forty billion. It’s inefficiency.
The model shows EBITDA positive at month thirty-six.
The runway’s at the front of an eighteen-million raise.
The investor asked about the moat. The founder said
It’s eighteen months of pilots with three enterprise clients.

The logos in the deck looked legit.
No one had approved them.
One client called at noon and said remove it.
The deck was updated but the copy in the room was old.
He got the money anyway.

The roadmap had a feature called the intelligence layer.
It was GPT beneath a white label. Prayers
That the API costs would settle. Prayers
The unit economics would work before the next round,
Per-call costs at scale managed by a system
Four engineers out on timeline, optimistic frame.

The timing is divine.

Dissociation Station

I left my body somewhere on the highway between the exits,
I filed the report but nobody in the bureau accepts it,
I am operating from approximately here,
close enough to function, far enough that nothing is clear.
The woman at the coffee shop said have a lovely morning,
and I watched myself respond without receiving any warning,
the words came out correctly and my face arranged correctly,
but I was watching from somewhere above and indirectly.

Dissociation station, next stop unknown,
the body going through its paces, living on its own,
I am checking from a distance, I will reconnect sometime,
the train left without me but the schedule reads on time.

It happens most in meetings, in the mandatory cheer
of group participation, in the clarifying veneer
of social interaction, I perform it without friction,
the body knows its lines, I watch it with conviction.
I asked the people who are close to me if they can tell,
they say I seem a little quiet but they seem to feel well
enough about the answer, take the answer at its face,
which tells me that the body runs the social interface

without me needing to be present in a way that shows,
the automation is good enough, the presentation goes,
and I will not raise the topic of where I actually am,
I keep watching from the mezzanine like a diagram.

I tracked the triggers and the weather patterns of the state:
fluorescent light, high-stakes performance, running very late,
the residue of conflict or the opposite, long quiet,
the body keeping itself busy while the self goes riot.
The doctor asks if I feel safe and I say yes with honesty,
not in danger but in distance, in the modesty
of presence, and I cannot explain the difference to a form,
so dissociation station has become my working norm.

Don’t Get Up Yet

She threw one leg across my hip and said don’t get up yet,
Reached down between us where the morning had already set,
The table for the feast, she grabbed my cock half-hard and stroked,
Me back to full attention while the morning light provoked.

Every shadow on her face into a frame of wanting more,
I rolled her underneath me and she wrapped her legs, the core,
Of everything that keeps me coming back to this same bed,
She pulled me in and I was home, enough said.

Don’t get up yet, she has got me pinned beneath her thighs,
Don’t get up yet, forget the sunrise, forget the skies,
The only horizon I am interested in is the one between her legs,
Don’t get up yet, she is riding me to the dregs,
Of the morning and the last drop of whatever we have left,
Don’t get up yet, of sleep bereft.

I fucked her slow like honey dripping off a knife in summer heat,
She moaned my praises into the pillow, every beat,
Of our hips connecting was a metronome of lazy filth,
Don’t get up yet, we are building wealth.

The kind you spend in orgasms and the currency is time,
She came with her nails in my shoulders and her legs in climb,
Around my waist, I came inside her thirty seconds after,
Don’t get up yet, just the sound of morning laughter.

Doorway Mathematics

The hallway narrows at the kitchen door
and we both try to pass at the same time
her chest against my chest for one full breath
her hip bones hard against the ridge of mine

We stop, suspended in the wooden frame
too tangled up to simply step aside
her hands flat on my stomach, pushing back
but pushing slow, like something wants to slide

I smell her shampoo and the wine she drank
and underneath the salt-sweet human scent
that lives along her collarbone and neck
where pulse meets skin meets pure goddamn intent

We do this dance of angles and excuse
pretending that we fit this tight by accident
pretending that the doorway made us choose
to press together, hot and hesitant

She laughs it off but does not move away
her fingers still pressed flat against my ribs
I feel her breathe, the rise, the fall, the rise
her belly pushing warm against my hips

Somebody in the living room calls out
and breaks the spell like dropping something glass
she slips around me, trailing fingertips
across my waist as she squeezes past

I stand there in the empty frame alone
still feeling where her body pressed on mine
the ghost-shape of her burning through my clothes
like sunlight through a window, line by line

Drive-Thru Reliquary
I park beneath a buzzing streetlight,
engine ticking like a verdict in the heat.
Paper sack on my passenger seat,
smelling like comfort dressed in grease and sweet.

The wrappers crack like little sermons,
and I answer with a hungry kind of grin.
One more bite to hush the questions,
one more bite to keep the quiet thin.

I eat like I’m erasing minutes,
like chewing turns regret into a blur.
Ketchup stains my thumb like evidence,
and I pretend I never noticed, sir.

A lonely man can make a banquet
from a pile of cheap, soft bread.
A lonely man can call it mercy
while his chest stays hard as lead.

The world outside keeps selling virtue
in tidy cups with plastic lids.
I watch it through a fogged-up window
like a father watching kids.

My phone spits news and tragedy,
I tap past it like a bored referee.
Then I open another burger
like a gate that only opens up for me.

Pickles bite like small green gossip,
onions sting like truth I can’t respect.
I swallow every simple warning,
then chase it with a soda’s fake effect.

My stomach plays the grateful drumbeat,
my brain goes quiet for a while.
That silence costs a lot tomorrow,
yet tonight it buys me one clean mile.

I wipe my mouth on paper napkins
printed with a smiling little face.
It feels like being judged by cartoons
in a fluorescent holy place.

I hear the folklore of the parking lot,
the midnight tales men never tell.
How hunger wears a human costume,
how comfort runs a quiet shell.

I’m not starving for the flavor,
I’m starving for the pause in my own head—
for the moment I stop measuring
every word I never said.

I bite again and feel the heartbeat
of a system that prefers me dull.
A man with crumbs on his shirtfront
makes a perfect, quiet tool.

No speeches, no brave confessions,
just wrappers stacked like fallen flags.
Just a steering wheel held steady
while my pride slips out in rags.

Somewhere inside this ritual,
a smaller me still wants to quit.
He taps the glass from the inside,
then watches me take another hit.

When the last burger disappears,
I sit with the aftertaste of facts.
The hush lifts off my shoulders,
and the old ache crawls right back.

I start the car, I roll the window,
cold air cuts through fried perfume.
I toss the sack, I clear the evidence,
still hauling what I can’t exhume.

Tomorrow I’ll sound reasonable,
tomorrow I’ll act clean and bright.
Tonight I fed the empty animal
and called the feeding “all right.”

Driving Nowhere
in Particular

The tank was three-quarters full.
The evening was ready to submit
to something other than the apartment,
its ceiling,
its news feed.

So I drove the long way—
past the grocery store,
past the agreed social contract of the strip
where I might be recognized
by someone who requires a performance I’ve not sized
for tonight.

The warm smile.
The current-with-my-own-life conversation.
The thirty-second accounting of a self
still in formation.

I drove the long way.
Drove the whole perimeter twice.

Somewhere past the overpass
I had the whole thing scripted—
built and real,
the tone and timing first-class,
the honest sentence practiced for the windshield,
for the dark interior of the car
where the yield of the actual costs nothing,
where words go out
into the headliner, the upholstery,
without the doubt of being heard.

I had it past the underpass.
I had it clear.

The exit came up.
I let it pass.

Driving nowhere exactly.
Still going.
Still here.

Came home when the tank said low.
Sat in the driveway
watching the slow tick
of the cooling engine
count down to the quiet
of the neighborhood at this hour—
its gentle riot of porch lights
and the distant.

Nothing required.
No destination reached.
No item cleared.

Retired for the night into the house
without the thing resolved.

Driving nowhere exactly.

Not dissolved.

Early Clock Out

The fluorescent ceiling buzzes like a dying fly trapped inside a glass jar
Thirty seconds remain until three fifty-five
The air tastes of bleached plastic and cheap cigars
I watch the second hand stutter and finally arrive
He sits inside the glass office scratching his fat greasy chin
Counting my minutes like pennies inside a rusted tin
A pathetic dictator ruling a linoleum floor
I wipe the grease from my hands and walk toward the door

Five stolen minutes ripped from the jaws of the beast
Five bloody minutes where I become the high priest
Of my own miserable goddamn existence
I punch that plastic clock with a violent persistence
Fuck your schedule and your pathetic daily grind
I am walking out early and leaving your corpse behind

He yells from the doorway with saliva upon his lip
Threatening my paycheck with a trembling grip
I turn and give him the finger right to his red face
A beautiful chaotic exit from this sterile hellish place
Every second I steal is a fracture inside his control
I take the time back to resurrect my battered soul
Let the machines grind to a sudden agonizing halt
When the quotas crash down it will be my glorious fault
I step into the harsh afternoon sunlight burning my eyes
Shedding the heavy skin of a hundred corporate lies
Three hundred seconds of absolute total anarchy
A magnificent empty fraction of brutal liberty

The engine turns over with a harsh choking spit
I roll down the window and spit upon the dirt
Leaving that sweating bastard to choke upon his own shit
My stolen five minutes are the only things that hurt
I drive away leaving the factory choking upon its own exhaust
A temporary victory regardless of the final cost

Eat shit

Eat shit and die, piss off and fry,
Go choke on a cactus, you crusty crotch pie,
Sit and spin, you moldy old trout,
Fart in a hurricane, let the wind blow you out,
Up yours sideways with a chainsaw grip,
Suck my rotten toes, take a salty drip,
Blow it out your ass like a busted exhaust,
You dickbrained muffin, you’re already lost.

Eat shit, eat shit, I said it, that’s it,
Go tongue-punch a fartbox, you banana-faced twit,
Eat shit, eat shit, you sewer-stain clown,
May your toilet explode when you’re sitting down.

Lick my sweaty crack, go french a landmine,
Rub your nips on a cheesegrater, you tire-fire swine,
Cuddle with a blender, swallow a bee,
May a raccoon shit in your morning coffee.
Fuck off, fuckerhead, paddle your douche canoe,
You breath like garbage and your soul’s dog poo,
Bite a lightning rod, get fried from within,
Choke on your words and your quadruple chin.

Eat shit, eat shit, let the world know,
You ass-tuba goblin, go bathe in Jell-O,
Eat shit, eat shit, I’m all outta grace,
May your Tinder date fart right into your face.

May your bedbugs twerk to the sound of your shame,
May your balls get stuck in a bicycle chain,
May every burrito you eat be full of despair,
May your pubes catch fire while you’re shaving down there,
Go fist a cactus, you cheese-humping skunk,
May your mom find your browser and delete all your junk,
Eat shit on repeat till you dream of my sneer,
And wake up each day just to swallow more fear.

Eat shit, eat shit, let it echo and ring,
Go tongue-kiss a porcupine, suck a bee sting,
Eat shit, eat shit, for the crowd and the pit,
Go bathe in napalm, you miserable git.

So eat shit, eat shit, that’s my final request,
May your Wi-Fi always buffer when you’re trying to sext,
Eat shit, eat shit, now run along, clown-
If life had a toilet, I’d flush you right down

Effort Report

I made the bed this morning — that goes on the ledger as accomplished,
I made the bed and washed the single fork from breakfast, unpromised
by any external standard, just my own reduced-capacity commitment
to the visible surface of the life, the functional and sufficient.

Two emails before noon, both answered in the first pass without revision,
that’s a pace that signals engagement and a functional decision
to participate in the week despite whatever the week has going
underneath the management of it — two emails. I’m showing.

Effort report, the numbers for this week are what they are:
I showed up, processed the visible, and cleared a reasonable bar —
effort report, I’m not invisible, I’m not in full defection,
effort report: present and accounted for, with appropriate correction.

Some weeks the bar sits at a height that I clear without the noticing,
some weeks the bar descends to meet me with a gentle proposing
of the reduced but still legitimate benchmark of the man who’s still in motion —
two emails and a made bed is a week-dependent notion.

I’m filing this under net-positive, I’m logging it as delivered,
the output was reduced in volume but the presence was considered —
effort report: I maintained the visible, I didn’t disappear —
effort report. I’m here. That counts. The bar is right here.

Entropy Hymn
Everything falls apart. Everything.
The house, the marriage, the cells that cling
to cohesion like a prayer,
but entropy does not negotiate or care.

The second law is the cruelest scripture ever penned—
the universe sliding toward its disordered end,
and the body is a temporary argument against
the chaos that will win, the only real expense.

The roof goes first. Then hair. Then the foundation cracks.
Paint bubbles, peels away, the walls reveal their rot—
soft decay and ruin, the house returns to earth
the way the body does, with that same methodical sound

of nothing holding, nothing gripping, nothing left to bind,
the universe dissolving into its most comfortable kind:
disorder. Randomness. The patient dark.
Entropy never hurries. Entropy doesn’t mark

time the way we do—it’s not in any rush.
It eats the smile last, after it finishes with the flesh,
after the walls come down and the last light fades away,
after the stars forget the names we gave the constellations.

I am falling apart right now.
You’re too.
The difference between us and the dead
is the rate of the falling.

(Final Chorus)

Remember when your hand slipped into mine,
Two fools who thought we’d beat the clock?
We stitched our dreams like patchwork quilts,
Believed they’d never fray or slip.

I held them close through endless nights,
Through wounds that neither of us could hide.
But love don’t always win the war—
Sometimes it just learns to let go.

Goodbye to the dreams that held us tight,
Goodbye to the battles fought through night.
Two worlds, two paths, the wound won’t close,
But every ending lets the dead rest easy.

I keep your shape in rooms you’ve left,
An note ringing in my chest.
All that potential—what was it for?
Some wounds don’t heal no matter how long,
Some roads just split, and that’s the truth.

So take your half, I’ll keep my part,
These broken pieces left in the dark.
And if I miss you in the quiet spaces,
That’s the price we pay for all the wasted years.
One last look at what we almost made,
One last breath before I step into the dark.
The rift won’t mend, the wound won’t close,
But every ending lets the dead rest easy.

Every Night

[Verse 1] The microwave clock reads twelve-double-zero I’m washing off the day, no villain
and no hero The bills are on the counter,
the news is on the screen Another day of running the modern machine I rinse the coffee cup,
I lock the front door tight I turn off the TV
and kill the hallway light But the second that the quiet settles on the floor I’m not in this year anymore

[Chorus] I talk to your ghost every night Not with a seance,
just a whisper in the light I tell you about the traffic,
I tell you about the rain I tell you how the rust is eating at the chain I ask you for a joke,
I wait for the reply I talk to your ghost Just to keep the past alive

[Verse 2] The years stack up like newspapers in the hall Gray in the mirror,
cracks in the wall The seasons don’t “change,” they just grind the gears Turning the sharp grief into dull,
heavy years But I close my eyes and I’m back in the seat Of that old Ford Escort,
turning up the heat You’re laughing at the dash,
smoke in your hair I reach out my hand and grab a fistful of air

[Chorus] I talk to your ghost every night Not with a seance,
just a whisper in the light I tell you about the traffic,
I tell you about the rain I tell you how the rust is eating at my chains I ask you for some hope,
I wait for the reply I talk to your ghost Just to keep the past alive

[Bridge] No misty fields,
no starlit skies Just the ceiling fan spinning above my eyes I don’t know if you hear me past the static
and the noise Or if I’m just talking to a room that sits destroyed But it keeps me sane,
this one-way call Throwing my voice against the empty wall

[Verse 3] I tell you I’m tired,
I tell you I’m old I tell you the bed feels remarkably cold But as long as I’m breathing,
as long as I stand I’m keeping your signal warm with both my hands You’re not in the ground,
you’re not in the stone You’re the echo that never leaves me alone,

[Outro] So I say goodnight to the empty chair. I say goodnight to the thin,
cold air. I call out to you, low
and steady. Until the day I’m finally ready. To hang it up.

I talk to your ghost. Every night.

Everything Hurts But That Is Funny

Everything hurts in the morning, the back, the neck, the knee,
the consequences of a life of hauling comedy,
the physical toll of standing wrong on stages for decades,
and the funny thing about it is it never quite degrades.

My chiropractor has a nameplate that says comedy adjacent,
because half his patient roster is from the entertainment placement,
comedians and wrestlers in the waiting room together,
comparing core-level complaints in the miserable weather.

Everything hurts but that is funny if you hold it right,
everything hurts but that is funny in the morning light,
the comedy of the body breaking down by increments,
everything hurts but that is funny and it all makes sense.

I did a forty-five last night and woke up like a protest,
every vertebra complaining with a deeply felt unrest,
and I thought, this is the funniest thing that has ever happened,
to be forty-nine and aching from a thing you’ve not abandoned.

The audience will never know the backstage physiotherapy,
the heating pads, the ibuprofen, the quiet anatomy,
of getting ready for an hour of looking effortless and easy,
when everything inside you is complaining, stiff, and breezy.

Everything I Did for Love
I learned to burn the map of safer places
and drive my hands into the soft geography of wanting you,
reckless as a man with nothing to lose
and everything to prove.

I traded silence for a highway
and took every exit that smelled like your laugh,
leaving receipts of small crimes folded
in the glovebox of my nights.

I promised ruin and delivered it like a gift,
have you felt a man give his danger away
with the same tenderness as a hand
that smooths a sleeping brow.

I lied to keep the moment true
and then confessed in the dark where confessions find their uses,
your breath a metronome that taught my chest
new rhythms.

I smashed my watch to be late on purpose
so time would be a servant and not a judge,
hours bending under the heavy gravity
of wanting you.

I left jobs unfinished and arguments unresolved
because fever asks for dues in sweat
and motel sheets and the math of bodies
makes sense where reason fails.

I learned the sound of your name in a chorus of bad decisions
and repeated it until repetition itself
became an altar I could kneel at without shame.

I took trains without tickets, lovers without references,
and each stolen seat taught me the geometry
of how close two people can get
before the world demands a receipt.

I wore the same jacket until it smelled of you
and strangers asked questions I answered with silence,
the right kind of silence that keeps a secret honest.

I mailed my patience to the wrong address
and when it was returned I recognized it as a lesson,
a currency I would spend more wisely later.

I broke furniture to feel something that felt like truth;
wood and glass make excellent witnesses
and the shards taught me where edges live.

I learned the difference between need and want
by burning both to see which flame kept me warm;
wanting you lasted longer, inconveniently holy and precise.

I touched you in public like a theft
and in private like a homecoming,
fingers learning the place names on your skin
as if tracing a country I wanted to live in.

I sang vows I could not afford
and paid them with minutes and mornings,
an economy of gestures that left me bankrupt
and oddly satisfied.

I forgave crimes against my pride
because your apology came shaped like dinner
and the willingness to stay when staying was expensive.

I stole a kiss in a room full of friends
and found confession in witnesses’ silence;
sometimes the best altar is an indifferent crowd.

I left when your distance became a habit
and I returned the next day with flowers
as humble restitution for absence,
the ritual of return more useful than any sermon.

I learned to apologize with work:
small repairs, late calls, hands that fix rather than promise,
because desire needs scaffolding to bear weight over time.

I tasted regret and found in it a bitter spice
that taught better recipes for the next attempt at loving
without burning the house down.

I kept receipts of the ways I failed you
and framed the smaller ones as practice;
I will hang them in a room called education
and move through it with less arrogance.

I never meant to be heroic;
I was merely greedy for the permission to be known
and to know you in a way that ransacked the ordinary
and left a clearer map.

Everything I did for love was ungentle, glorious, and a little obscene,
I traded common sense for the ache of your shoulder against my own.
Everything I did for love was foolish, true, and loud as prayer,
I spent my nights like currency to buy the right to your name on my lips.

I will not tidy every wreck;
some of the things I did were storms
and storms leave wreckage and also a cleaner sky,
and I learned to live in both states.

I learned to ask for less spectacle and more stubbornness;
give me the hand that comes back,
the light that waits on the porch,
the ordinary bravery of staying
when leaving is easier.

I will not soft-sell my extremities —
the lengths were real and they taught me
fidelity to wanting, an ethics of appetite
learned by trial and small repentance.

Faded Scent
Morning came in sideways through the blind,
hit the pillow where her head had been,
and the room held everything she’d left behind —
the particular residue of a night between
two people who burned the careful distance down
and left this wreckage, this specific warmth,
this evidence that can’t be written down
but saturates the air from south to north.
Her perfume in the sheets, her sweat in mine,
the faint musk of two bodies at full weight,
the room a document I can’t unline —
every surface a record of the late hours’ state.

Faded scent, but fading slow,
the room remembers what the morning doesn’t know,
the indentation in the pillow, the heat still in the bed,
the smell of what we did before we said
whatever comes after — the air still thick with it,
the body’s own account, its own explicit writ,
faded scent, but not yet gone —
the room holds the night until the day moves on.

The glass she drank from sitting on the sill,
the lipstick at the rim a precise arc,
the window breathing with the morning chill
against a room that’s still half-dark,
and I don’t open it, don’t break the seal
the night put on this space between these walls,
don’t interrupt the inventory, the real
and vanishing record of what falls
away the moment light decides to clean
the surfaces of everything that was —
I want the room to stay inside the between,
inside the hour that still holds because
her heat is in the fabric and her hair
left three strands on the pillowcase I find
with my hand moving through the altered air,
reading the room the way you read a mind.

Faded scent, but fading slow,
the room remembers what the morning doesn’t know,
the indentation in the pillow, the heat still in the bed,
the smell of what we did before we said
whatever comes after — the air still thick with it,
the body’s own account, its own explicit writ,
faded scent, but not yet gone —
the room holds the night until the day moves on.

The sheets are twisted into the specific shape
of two bodies that forgot their edges,
the territory blurred past the drape
of individual claim, the ridges
and hollows of the mattress holding still
the negative space of where she pressed and arched,
and I run my palm across it like a bill
of sale, like a man who just got chartered
into something he doesn’t want to leave —
the warmth already cooling at the center,
the outline fading at the edges, the reprieve
of the night departing like a renter
who paid in heat and left the walls still marked,
left the air still dense with aftermath,
left me here with the evidence, the dark
receding and the room completing its math.

Faded scent, but fading slow,
the room remembers what the morning doesn’t know,
the indentation in the pillow, the heat still in the bed,
the smell of what we did before we said
whatever comes after — the air still thick with it,
the body’s own account, its own explicit writ,
faded scent, but not yet gone —
the room holds the night until the day moves on.

By noon the room will be a room again,
neutral and forgetful and scrubbed clean
by the indifferent ventilation, and then
there’ll be no record of the in-between,
no lipstick arc, no heat in the weave,
no three strands on the case, no saturated air —
just a room that held a night and had to leave
it, had to give the morning back its share,
and I’ll open the window then, let the city in,
let the whole ordinary Tuesday take the space,
but not yet — not while the scent is still a skin
the night is wearing, not while I can trace
the outline of her in the warmth and the wreck
of the sheets, not while the room is still a record —
I press my face into the pillow at her neck’s
last position and breathe it in, the unrestored
and fading proof of a woman who was here,
who left her heat behind her like a word
said in the dark that still hangs in the air —
present and almost gone and still preferred.

Faultlines In The Bones (Haitian Earthquakes, 2010 & 2021)

There’s a clockless hour in Port-au-Prince,
thick with the iron perfume of dust and rain,
Where the last rooster crows atop a roof made of rags and blue tarpaulin pain,
You can hear the hymn of the living digging by candle, hands blistered raw,
Cursing the way cement falls heavier than sin,
and love is measured by what you’re willing to claw,
Auntie Martine’s rosary buried beside a mattress pressed flat as a gravestone,
Children trading prayers for rice, or scraps of tin,
or a corner of shade to call their own.

Ghosts gather at the cemetery gate, looking for bodies with their names,
You see them in the open wounds of the city, counting heads, whispering blames,
A father’s shout is a shovel’s bite,
slicing through brick for the promise of flesh,
All the saints are busy, all the churches cracked,
and every heartbreak is fresh,
The sun keeps rising, cruel and bright, over tent cities stretched along tombs,
Every aftershock a warning that you can never go back,
only forward, carrying too many rooms.

A baby is born in a field hospital, screaming into a world of broken floors,
Her mother bites a stick to bear down, eyes locked on God —
one hand gripping hope, the other the tent’s torn doors,
There’s a grave dug with bare feet behind every broken wall,
Grandmothers weep in the street,
names chalked on plywood, waiting for some miracle call,
The living barter for water, share grief like an old family song,
Nobody here mistakes survival for luck,
nobody here believes the world is strong.

There are memories buried beneath every stone, names swallowed by mud,
History written on cardboard signs,
begging in three languages for something better than blood,
Foreign news crews come for a minute,
but the real story is told in creole and sweat,
It’s carved into knuckles and knees,
the lines of those who have nothing to forget,
A boy sits on the rubble that used to be school,
shoes lost, eyes rimmed in white,
Learning his arithmetic from the cracks in the street,
praying his hunger won’t last through the night.

After the cameras, after the saints, after the hope trucks sputter away,
The city still pulses—an open wound,
a thousand hands searching for someone to say
That this, too, is holy: the bones of family beneath the cinder and bone,
A kitchen table crushed flat but set for dinner,
a mother’s lullaby through stone,
Names scrawled in charcoal on sheet metal walls,
a headstone for all that’s been taken,
A promise that when the earth shakes,
the living will answer, and the dead are never forsaken.

Tremors in the night, and still the candles burn,
Every tent a memory, every grave a lesson you learn,
Faultlines in the bones, histories written in scars,
The earth can swallow a nation, but can’t dim their stars.

============================================================

Feast Of Flies
More.
That’s the whole sermon.

More wine, more noise, more skin, more time.
More of the thing that didn’t fix it last time.
Pull up another chair to the table of never enough—
the feast goes all night,
and the night goes till it doesn’t.

He eats like a man who’s afraid the food will leave him.
Drinks like the bottle holds an answer at the bottom.
Loves like possession. Sleeps like the dead.
Wakes up and starts the whole damn eulogy again.

The body is a temple.
He turned it to a bar.
Every vice a candle
burning for some long-buried star.

mm mm mm more more more

Feast of flies. Feast of flies.
Pull up a throne at the rotting table.
Feast of flies.

Everything looks like hunger
when you’ve forgotten what you’re able
to survive on.
To live on.
To actually feel without
the noise.

December looks like June.
The calendar’s irrelevant
when every day’s a wound you’re padding.
Another round.
Another hit.
Another body in the rotation.
Another morning on the bathroom floor,
calling it a vacation.

He’s not broken—that would mean a clean snap.
This is erosion.
The way a riverbank just quietly
becomes the river.

And the party keeps on playing.
Same song on repeat.
Same faces at the table.
Same mess beneath the feast.

mm mm mm more more more

Feast of flies. Feast of flies.
Pull up a throne at the rotting table.
Feast of flies.

Everything looks like hunger
when you’ve forgotten what you’re able
to survive on.
To live on.
To feel without
the static.

mm mm mm more more more

There’s a photograph somewhere
of him at seventeen,
eating a sandwich on a Tuesday
like a Tuesday was enough,
like a sandwich was enough,
like just being alive in a moment
without filling it up
was something a person could do.

He looks at it sometimes.
Doesn’t recognize the quiet in the kid’s eyes.
Hasn’t been that still since.
Can’t remember learning to be otherwise.

mm mm mm more more more

Feast of flies.
Feast of flies.
Rotten table, golden lie.
Everything tastes like more.
Everything tastes like why.

Feast of flies.
The guest of honor
at his own slow
goodbye.

mm mm mm more more more

Fever at the Meridian
Midnight peeled away like skin from fruit,
and the sheets became a furnace, cotton burning at the root,
her silhouette still pressed into the dark behind my eyes,
the phantom weight of hipbones and the salt between her thighs.

Concupiscent and restless, I am ruined by the thought
of the hollow at her collarbone where perfume pools and caught —
the way it lingered hours past the moment she had gone,
and I breathe the ghost of jasmine while the ceiling hums along.

Three a.m. keeps stretching like a body being bared,
every second is a peeling back of something undeclared,
and the blood won’t slow its sermon, and the pulse won’t find its peace,
and the wanting is a fever that the darkness won’t release.

She wore that dress like water wears a stone — slow and sure,
and the memory of hemline brushing kneecap is the cure
I can’t swallow, can’t administer, can’t pour into a vein,
just the libidinous replay and the exquisite refrain.

The mattress holds her absence like a mold pressed into clay,
but this isn’t grief or sorrow — this is hunger on display,
the rapacious kind, the kind that makes the jaw go tight,
the tumescent, aching, burning, wide-awake-all-goddamn-night.

I would pull her through the doorframe like a tide pulls back the sand,
I would trace the topographic inch of everything unplanned,
the dip below the belly and the arc above the spine,
every contour incandescent, every territory mine.

Three a.m. keeps stretching like a body being bared,
every second is a peeling back of something undeclared,
and the blood won’t slow its sermon, and the pulse won’t find its peace,
and the wanting is a fever that the darkness won’t release.

Filament
Skin like lit phosphor.
Curves I memorized.
Can’t unknow the wanting.
Can’t unsee her eyes.

The pillow still holds her—
faintest trace of sweat.
Every nerve a filament
in a circuit she has set.

I’m burning at three a.m.,
no sleep, just flesh and ache.
She left her scent across my bed
and I’m wide awake.

Hips that rolled like whiskey,
slow pour, deliberate.
The dress she peeled at shoulder—
left me reprobate.

Thinking of the small of back
where spine meets softer ground,
the way she arched, involuntary,
making half a sound.

Febrile, restless, tangled,
sheets kicked to the floor.
Replaying every movement
of the dress she wore before.

Mouth against her shoulder.
Teeth across her hip.
The languorous descent of hands
from ribcage down to grip.

I’m burning at three a.m.,
the blood won’t settle down.
She left her heat across my bed
and I am burning down.

The clock won’t move, the room won’t cool,
the blood won’t slow its pace.
Lying here alone tonight
in this insatiable place.

Fine, Let It Burn (Revised)
The fire alarm chirps once. Twice. Then flips its switch
and screams through the hallway like a demon with a rent bill and no patience.
Smoke slides under my door in lazy ribbons, soft as theft,
while the paint blisters and the shadows stand up tall like they want a crowd.

I could grab the extinguisher. Hit the stairs. Pound on every neighbor’s door
until my knuckles split and my throat tastes like pennies.
I stretch like I’m clocking out, sit on the bed’s edge,
light a cigarette, watch the ash hit the floor, and think: not my goddamn problem tonight.

—

The screen spits headlines with bright little chimes,
catastrophe packaged neat, stacked like bodies in a feed nobody has to touch.
War here, flood there, kids behind fences, rich men chewing on every bleeding need
like it’s a fucking buffet with table service.
I scroll with one thumb, heart rate flat, no spike, no prayer, no heroic itch,
just a dull “figures” rattling around my skull.
Every story wants my outrage on demand,
and I sit there calm as a locked door, leg twitching slow,
letting the world strain without my sweat.

—

You yell how can you not care,
like shouting fixes a single flame or buys back a single hour.
I retired from panic the night nobody listened to my screams
and still expected my hands to save them.

—

Fine. Let it burn.
Let the sky turn black and the streets crack under heat like old lies finally splitting open.
I ran around with buckets long enough—let somebody else blister their feet and call it virtue
while I keep my lungs to myself.
If the city goes up tonight while I sip and stare
and they still don’t learn a damn thing from the smoke,
chalk me up as one more bastard who said: fine. Let it burn.

—

Mother calls, voice thin. Says she needs help with the meds and the bills
and the quiet terror of getting old in a country that charges for mercy.
I stare at the phone till it stops ringing, then I let the silence win,
throw on a movie, chase a couple cheap thrills like I earned a break from being human.
Guilt crawls up my spine like roaches in kitchen light,
then it settles in, gets comfortable, falls asleep like it paid rent in my ribs.
I mute the memories, crank the volume up,
let the worry sink deep where it can rot without demanding a speech from me.

—

I used to sprint into every blaze till my hair smelled like smoke for weeks
and my hands shook in the sink like they were still holding strangers.
Nobody handed me water, they handed me more fires, more demands, more shrieks,
more people who loved my labor and hated my limits.
Something in me snapped one midnight on the third unthanked run,
lungs raw, eyes stung, pride gutted, still being told to hurry the fuck up.
Ever since, my first thought watching any flame is: good. Let it be done.
Let the ash prove what my exhaustion couldn’t.

—

Fine. Let it burn.
Let the sky turn black and the streets crack under heat like old lies finally splitting open.
I ran around with buckets long enough—let somebody else blister their feet and call it virtue
while I keep my lungs to myself.
If the city goes up tonight while I sip and stare
and they still don’t learn a damn thing from the smoke,
chalk me up as one more bastard who said: fine. Let it burn.

—

I know what I’m doing. I know my calm is a choice
and my silence is a small, clean act of violence dressed up as rest.
I remember the old version of me, frantic and decent,
believing effort could shame people into decency,
believing I could carry the whole block on my back.
I was the idiot knocking on doors, dragging bodies, begging for help,
getting stared at, getting judged, getting used, getting told I should be grateful.
Now I keep my hands clean and my conscience ugly,
a private strike, a hard little fuck-you
to every mouth that only opens once the smoke reaches them.

—

When they call me heartless on the breaking banner
and dig through my history for proof I never earned,
tell them I once ran till my lungs bled and my legs buckled under duty.
Then I stopped. Said fuck this. Watched the sirens fade
like a lesson nobody wanted until it was too late.

Fine. Let it burn. Let the sky turn black and the streets crack under heat.
Let the night keep score in smoke.
Chalk me up as one more bastard who said:
fine. Fuck it. Let it burn. Let it burn.

Fine
They ask me at the door, the counter, the desk, the passing hall—
fine is the correct dimension of what lives between us, that’s all,
fine is not a lie exactly, fine is the appropriate answer
for the format: the thirty-second social scan, the dancer’s
quick turn at the barre before the music asks for more—
fine keeps the conversation fitted to the floor
it’s being held on, which is tile and fluorescence and the moving
line of people who are also fine and not proving
anything to anyone, just passing and maintaining speed.

Fine, I’m fine—it’s a paper wall that passes for a window.
Fine, I’m fine—the agreed-upon, the managed, the shallow
of a social exchange that no one wants to plow too deep—
fine, I’m fine, the password to the surface, the short leap
over the actual thing and into the civil transaction.
Fine, I’m fine, the only word that fits this contraction
of space and context—fine maintains the speed required.
Fine, I’m fine. The honest answer has retired.

Sometimes the real thing surfaces—I feel the actual word
rising through the mechanism, the genuine, the unblurred
version reaching the threshold before I swallow it back down—
the real thing was almost said, almost wore the mantle
of being the sentence I delivered to the asking face.
Then the line moves forward and fine takes back its place.

I’m fine the way a hairline fracture in a beam is fine—
structurally within acceptable, still falling along the line
of tolerances, no collapse projected at this time, the scan
says probably nothing, probably just the wear and plan
of a life lived close to the edge of something without a name.
I’m fine. I made it to the end. I’m still in the frame.

Fine, I’m fine—the standard-issue answer to the standard ask.
Fine keeps the moment moving at the pace that wears the mask
comfortably—fine says I’m functional, I’m in the game—
wait, not game—fine says I’m present, I’m on frame.
Fine, I’m fine—nobody asked for more than that.
Fine, I’m fine. I’ll leave it where it’s at.

Five Minutes In The Driveway

She answers every two a.m. call like she invented the concept of being there
Folds other people’s crises into something manageable with her bare hands
and a voice like steady weather
Nobody asks what she does with the wreckage after
Nobody thinks to ask
Measures everything now — sleep, sugar,
the precise distance between fine and not fine
Knows the exits of every room she walks into,
not from fear, just from having needed them once
The man she loves gets eighty percent and calls it everything
Because eighty from her feels like a flood from anyone else

She made a note in therapy
Filed it somewhere responsible
Between the insight and the not yet
Between the knowing and the doing
Which is where most true things live
In a woman like this

Five minutes in the driveway with the engine off and nobody watching
Just the dark and the steering wheel
and the part of her she doesn’t bring inside
Five minutes where the math stops
and the managing stops and the being what everyone needs stops
Five minutes
Then the door
Then the smile
Then the steady
Then the light

There’s a version of her that the folding chairs
and bad coffee and strangers-who-knew-her-first remember
That version had no volume control
and no governor on the engine and no specific interest in tomorrow
She visits her sometimes — not with longing,
more like checking on a neighborhood she used to live in
Making sure the windows are still dark
Making sure nobody’s home
Her daughter thinks she’s never been afraid of anything
Which is the most successful lie she’s ever told without opening her mouth
She just never let the fear have the wheel
Let it ride — sure, always riding — just never the wheel
There’s a difference
She’ll explain it someday when her daughter needs to know it
Which hopefully isn’t soon
Which hopefully isn’t yet

And the virtue is real
She didn’t find it clean
She dug it out of something ugly with her fingernails
And rinsed it off
And kept it

Not recovered
Recovering
Present tense
Active verb
No projected end date
No graduation ceremony
No morning she wakes up and the wanting is just gone like weather that moved on
Just this
The daily negotiation
The counted breath
The driveway
The five minutes
The choice she makes so quietly
So consistently
So without applause
That everyone around her
Has confused it
With ease

Engine off.
Dark.
Four minutes and fifty seconds left.
She’s not going anywhere.
She’s just
Here
For a minute
Being no one’s anything
Just hers
Just briefly
Just
Hers

Flat Tire on the Road to Anywhere

Pulled over to the gravel with a slow leak in the wheel,
the kind that doesn’t blow out, just deflates until you feel
the handling go soft and the ride goes from bad to worse —
a flat tire on the road to anywhere, in the universe.

He’s been sitting with the hazards on for longer than intended,
watching other people pass the spot where he ended
up beside the highway on the shoulder in the sun —
a man with a flat tire and not much else done.

Flat tire on the road to anywhere, sitting on the side,
flat tire on the road to anywhere, out of the ride —
the spare’s been in the trunk for years and might be flat too —
flat tire on the road to anywhere, nothing much to do.

He knows he ought to change it — knows the steps involved —
but the knowing and the doing are a problem to be solved
by a portrait of himself with more momentum than he’s got —
the man with the flat tire is running slightly hot

from the sun and the convenience of just sitting here a while
instead of kneeling in the gravel in the sun and going the full mile
of the effort — the tire will still be there in twenty more minutes —
the shoulder’s shade is decent and the sitting barely begins it.

He called in late because the flat was the excuse of the morning,
and the late was almost welcome, the flat almost a warning
that the road to anywhere requires a certain kind of working
that his tires haven’t had in years — he’s been shirking

the maintenance of forward, of the keeping up the motion —
the alignment’s been off for years without a real devotion
to the fixing and the checking and the keeping things in trim —
a man whose maintenance has drifted past the interim.

A truck slows down and the driver asks if he needs a hand —
he waves him off with the standard gesture that the world should understand
as “I’ve got this,” which is not accurate but is the easier thing —
accepting help would mean accepting that the flat is everything

it looks like from the outside: a man who stopped,
who’s been sitting on the shoulder since the forward dropped
out of the operating — better to wave the help away
and sit in the familiar convenience of the stayed.

Eventually he’ll change it, or he’ll call somebody,
or the day will move without him in its busy, forward body —
but for now the gravel shoulder and the passing of the cars
and the man beside the highway underneath the afternoon stars

of just-existing in the pause that circumstances gave him —
a flat tire on the road to anywhere, and the anywhere can wait —
he’s comfortable in the shoulder, which is something like a state
of grace for a man who’s been looking for a reason to stop being late.

Flat tire on the road to anywhere, another car goes past,
flat tire on the road to anywhere — how long can a flat last?

The flat can last as long as a man is willing to sit beside it —
and a man who’s comfortable in the shoulder doesn’t want to ride it
out of the comfortable, back into the traffic and the road —
flat tire, comfortable shoulder, and a manageable load.

He’s been on the shoulder of most things for a while —
not exactly stopped and not exactly running the full mile —
the metaphor extends: the flat is the ambition,
the shoulder is the managed, and the traffic is the mission

of the others going somewhere that they think they need to be —
and the man beside the highway is, for now, relatively free
of the urgency of getting there, wherever there is at —
flat tire on the road to anywhere, and he’s comfortable with that.

Flight Number 182 Ashes Over The Atlantic (The Kanishka Air India Bombing, 1985)

There’s a hollow in the morning sky, split wide by jet engines and time zones,
Where prayers stitched by mothers unravel at thirty-one thousand feet,
above the static and drone,
A June sunrise catches the silver hull, gleaming
like a wish carried west across the curve of the Earth,
Not a soul on board suspects they’ll be scattered as salt in ocean birth—
Babies dreaming in their bassinets,
grandparents leafing through tattered passports and last goodbyes,
All of them trusting in the physics of flight,
never imagining death sewn into their luggage as a prize.

Somewhere beneath the humming wings,
a suitcase ticks in perfect time with a fanatic’s heart,
A bomb engineered in shadows,
slipped past scanners by men who pray and plot worlds apart,
The flight attendant smooths blankets, the captain checks gauges and weather,
Nobody reads the omens hiding in the clouds —
nobody expects families to vanish together,
They never teach you, when you buy a ticket,
how quickly love and lineage can dissolve in the sky,
How an ideology, sharp as shrapnel,
turns the living into memories too empty to cry.

In Cork, in Montreal, in Mumbai,
the phones will ring and ring with no answer but static,
Kids missing from breakfast, fathers reduced to sea-foam,
mothers’ voices forever frantic,
An ocean isn’t a grave—no, it’s a thief, swallowing last words and gold bangles,
Turbans and teddy bears, diaries scrawled in panic, all tangled
With the debris field, a map of grief printed in latitude and longitude,
Forensics bagging hope in plastic, while politicians mumble platitudes.

Nobody will ever know the last thought crossing a mind as steel skin tears,
Maybe it’s the memory of sandalwood incense, or a child’s giggle, or the prayers
Sent up for safe landings and new beginnings —
scattered now like ashes across a continent’s sorrow,
A community cleaved, a hundred names carved on monuments nobody visits tomorrow,
Investigations drag for years, apologies come as cold comfort,
Justice delayed, diluted, shamed by the stink of paperwork and forgotten effort.

Families press saris to their faces, clinging to scent,
refusing the closure of sea-water and silence,
They gather every June,
lighting candles for ghosts that haunt the flight manifest in defiance,
You can’t bomb the memory out of blood,
can’t wipe away a generation’s DNA from the black box tape,
They’ll keep flying, but every journey is different
when you know how easily engines and trust can break,
In every airport lounge, you can still hear the hollow whistle of what was lost,
A lesson in how hate takes flight, and innocence is always the cost.

Ash over the ocean, prayers tangled in jet stream,
A hundred families dreaming, shredded midair—just a headline, just a scream,
The sea holds their secrets, but every sunrise stains the horizon red,
The innocent carried by flight and by faith, now numbers and names for the dead.

============================================================

Flyover Country

They call it flyover from the coasts and he has heard the term,
He calls it home and he does not let the insult confirm,
Any feeling of inadequacy about the place he chose to stay,
The flyover country feeds the coasts three times a day.

Flyover country, that is where the wheat comes from,
Flyover country, that is where the work gets done,
Flyover country, that is where the country still believes,
In the things that hold together what the coast receives.

He has been to both the coasts and he has seen the life they lead,
He returned with a more complicated view and the same creed,
That the interior is not the lesser reading of the edge,
It is the center of the country and the ledge.

From which the whole thing hangs in the balance of the real,
The farmers and the ranchers and the workers who still feel,
The flyover country in their bones and in their daily act,
Flyover country is the irreducible fact.

Footprints in the Ceiling

I wake with my mouth half open, tasting yesterday’s fear
like pennies on the tongue, and the dark feels newly armed
The house holds its breath at the edges, then exhales a thin wood-creak,
the kind that says a stranger learned your charm
Ceiling plaster looks innocent in daylight,
yet at 2 a.m. it turns to skin, it listens, it remembers, it keeps you warm
A powdery trail appears above my bed, heel
then toe then heel, a slow parade that never trips an alarm
No attic hatch hangs open, no ladder stands accused,
no sensible answer comes to settle what I’ve seen
I count the marks like prayers I don’t believe,
then hate myself for counting, since counting means I think the ceiling’s clean
The prints move wall to wall with measured calm,
like somebody owns the air up there, like somebody signed away my sleep between
[Chorus] Footprints in the ceiling, pale
and stealing, crossing over where I sleep
Footprints in the ceiling, slow revealing, teaching plaster how to creep
Footprints in the ceiling, cold and kneeling, cutting quiet into deep
Footprints in the ceiling, not forgiving, turning breath into a leak
I tape a thin stripe across the door,
and that stripe looks like a border I’m too ashamed to breach
I imagine a boot on joists, a hand on beams, a body low
and careful, listening for my pulse like it’s music they can teach
The ceiling fan hangs dead and still, yet the air moves anyway,
a private draft that stinks of dust and old speech
I hear nothing that counts as footsteps, only a soft drag,
a patient brush, the sound of somebody learning my reach
If I call out, the room will answer with silence,
and silence is the language that makes predators preach
If I stay quiet, I become the witness who signs away his own safety with every cowardly breach
[Chorus] Footprints in the ceiling, pale
and stealing, crossing over where I sleep
Footprints in the ceiling, slow revealing, teaching plaster how to creep
Footprints in the ceiling, cold and kneeling, cutting quiet into deep
Footprints in the ceiling, not forgiving, turning breath into a leak
Morning will show the marks as simple dust,
the kind you blame on pipes, or rats, or old plumbing that weeps
But 2 a.m. is a courtroom with no judge, no mercy, no recess,
just evidence that someone’s overhead while you try to sleep
I build a theory out of fear, it goes like this: the house has tenants I can’t see,
they walk in patient loops, they live in deep
They never knock because the ceiling is their floor,
and my life below is noise they’ve grown to find too cheap
The neighbors think I’m spiraling,
and maybe spiraling is just the word for noticing what everybody else ignores while they sleep
This house stacks paychecks like excuses,
stacks lies like insulation, stacks quiet like sleep
This ceiling is my small republic, and those prints are a hostile flag,
and my silence is a failure I can’t bleach
I rise anyway, feet on cold boards, and the cold tells the truth fast,
it says you don’t get safety for being meek
I grip a flashlight like a thin promise, not hero talk,
just a tool in my fist, and my breath turns sharp and deep
The attic hatch stares down from the hall like a closed eye,
and my hand hovers near the cord, wanting proof, wanting peace, wanting sleep
[Chorus] Footprints in the ceiling, pale
and stealing, crossing over where I sleep
Footprints in the ceiling, slow revealing, teaching plaster how to creep
Footprints in the ceiling, cold and kneeling, cutting quiet into deep
Footprints in the ceiling, not forgiving, turning breath into a leak
I pull the cord, the hatch drops open, and dust falls
like a bad blessing, and the air up there tastes old and cheap
Insulation lies in torn pink rows like skin pulled back,
and the flashlight finds a dark that doesn’t want to be swept
No face appears to greet me, no body leaps out screaming,
no movie moment, only the proof that something moved while I tried to sleep
A trail runs straight above my rooms, above my dreams,
above my mouth, and the trail keeps going, calm, complete
I climb one rung, then stop, since courage isn’t constant,
it comes in pulses, it comes in debts, it comes in deep
I know the marks will vanish with a rag, yet the knowledge won’t,
the knowledge sticks, the knowledge stains, the knowledge keeps
Someone walked above my life as if my life were storage,
and that insult is the terror I can’t sweep

Fuckin’ Electric

She arrived like a voltage spike in the dead and undefended middle of night,
Everything I’d been conserving for later igniting simultaneously in the light,
Current running straight through me from the very initial moment of contact,
Fuckin’ electric — and there’s absolutely no retrieving that.

A thunderstorm doesn’t consult the calendar before it comes rolling through town,
She arrived by exactly that same method, spinning every organized thing around,
Force of nature assembled in something I couldn’t file or categorize or place,
Fuckin’ electric, right in front of my face.

Thunderstorms at absolute midnight — she’s a force that operates completely raw,
Current running through every system like some foundational and ancient law,
Lightning in a specific bottle — untamed and impossible to hold,
Fuckin’ electric — and I’m completely sold.

World around me processed entirely to background and to blur,
Two people connecting in the specific chaos — only us for sure,
Electric current — direct transmission to the core of everything I own,
Caught in her specific frequency and I’m not going home alone.

Chaos and connection moving like we’ve had this choreography committed,
Every breath we take together collecting every debt I’ve ever submitted,
World can’t touch us in this wild and operational electric space,
Fuckin’ electric — I’ll take the pace.

Ghosts that Know My Title

I lit a mch I couldn’t hold
Wched it burn down bridges cold
And never meant a goddamn line
I left love in motel sheets
Now I walk through empty bars
Looking for faces behind the scars
These ghosts, they know my title
They trace my skin with blame
Every “fuck you” I now dread
They haunt my nights and twist the frame
I thought I’d age out of the shame
that girl I broke with hands and pride
Still shows up when I close my eyes
The slammed doors, the bitter crowd
The friends I left, the things I stole
These ghosts, they know my title
Play back scenes I wish I’d kill
But they’re louder now when I stand still
But goddamn it… they know my title
Never crawled back into that town
But every silence that I keep
Now I smile like it don’t hurt
I laugh, I drink, I fuck, I run
But the damage talks when the night is done
These ghosts, they know my title
They don’t forgive, they just remain
And sing the songs I can’t turn down
You can move on, but not from shame—
Some sins don’t scream
36 songs deep. And this one walks beside you long after the final chord fades.
Song #37 is next—and that means sleaze is back on the table. Loud, rude, leher-clad,
and soaked in sin. Want it funny, filthy, cruel,
or all three? I’m strapped in and ready to burn.
Song #37 —back to sleaze, grit,
and enough glam-stomp titude to knock the teeth out of every fake smile in the room. This one’s not about love or lust. It’s about fuckin’ revenge —
but make it sexy. Make it strut.
Left lipstick prints on my kickstand
Said, “Baby, you’re cute—but the drummer lasts longer—
She lit a smoke with my last regret
Told me, “Frontmen age like cigarettes.”
Swappin’ lips for another suit
Traded solos for tighter fists
Now she’s bangin’ bass and killin’ keys
Yeah, she left me for the backline—sweet and cruel
Guess every rockstar’s someone’s fool
I wrote her songs, she stole my stash
Gave my leher to some poser trash
Except you’re moanin’ when I ride.”
Now she’s inked up with my last verse
She’s got his hands where mine once stayed
And my old chains wrapped ‘round his braid
She left me for the backline, no encore
Slammed the van and fucked the floor
While I choke on lines I can’t remove
Yeah, she left me for the backline—sleek and slick
She ain’t a groupie—she’s a goddamn war
And I can’t blame her, hell, I’d go too
If I wasn’t still stuck missin’ her ttoos
Now I play her song every night
Just to feel that old stage fright
I still bleed in verse two
Now she’s main stage in someone else’s cage
But I ain’t bitter—I’m just loud
Yeah, she left me for the backline—what a way
To teach a frontman how to play
Mic’s still hot
But my bed’s gone cold—
In the fold.
37 done —loud, bitter, sexy,
and shredding through betrayal with a bottle and a grin.
Song #38 —even-numbered, so we’re stepping into the deeper,
darker wers again. No glam. No glitter. Just raw ache,
sensual obsession, and that unshakable truth that scent is memory’s dirtiest weapon.
This one drips with longing. It’s about the aftermath of skin-to-skin heat —
when they’re gone,
but the smell’s still there. It clings to your sheets, your lungs,
your guilt. You breathe it in like poison… and beg for another hit.

Glitter In The Wreckage

We’re glitter in the wreckage
bright in the crack of night
the “fuck it, sing it anyway” misfires
that somehow land just right

I woke up on the wrong damn side
of a life I never really signed for
half dressed
half stressed
coffee burned
rent late
bills piling on the floor

Every channel on the screen
is screaming that I’m nothing
if I’m not sleek and rich and pure

But my mirror’s cracked and laughing
whispering
“you gorgeous broken idiot
you’re still the cure”

I’ve got shoes with their soles half torn
and a heart that overdrafts on hope
each week

But the way the sun hits
my chipped-tooth grin
turns the whole cheap day
into something unique

And I’m humming off pitch
in the shower
like a drunk church choir
that forgot how to speak

Every flaw
every scar
every wrong note ringing through my chest
looks like trash on the surface
but inside that junk
there’s a heart that beats the best

I was told to hide the mess
but the mess
might be what I do best

I’ve been told that my joy is “too loud”
that my laugh sounds like a bar fight
in full swing

That my dreams look like graffiti
on a wall where the rich kids
never dare to sing

But my cheap six-string’s got three good strings left
and that’s enough
to make the rafters ring

Every ex
every boss
every petty little voice
that said “calm down, you’re too damn much”

Never understood
that some of us were born to blow the fuse
instead of using a crutch

I’m the saint of wrong directions
still stumbling
into the right kind of touch

They said grow up
shut up
smooth your edges
till you fit their script and suit

But I’d rather die with my hair on fire
than live forever standing on mute

If loving who I am
means saying “no” and “fuck that”
in the same warm breath

Then I’ll toast my flaws
with a chipped glass grin
and dance off-beat with death

Call all the burnouts
call all the freaks
call all the saints who swear

Call all the kids
who were told they’re trash
for daring to breathe loud air

Stack your middle fingers in the sky
like a strange stained-glass prayer
turn that broken window into a mural
let the neighbors stare

Yeah we’re glitter in the wreckage
shining like the world’s miswired art

If love feels strange and loud and cursed
that’s our kind
that’s our part

Glitter, Grease, and Bad Decisions

She showed up drunk in fishnets, stole a smoke with her tongue from my lips
Said, “I’m not here to flirt, I’m here to fuck or fight”—and I hoped it was both
Smelled like sugar, sin, and someone else’s cologne —
tasted like every mistake I’d make twice
Backse of a stranger’s car, panties lost, dignity traded for a moan
She scrched my chest like she was searching for morals I never owned
Said, “Don’t fall in love, baby—I’m just the rerun that still gets you hard”
Glitter, grease, and bad decisions—th’s her perfume and her plan
She doesn’t come with warnings, just orgasms and bruises
And I still chase her ghost in every alley with my zipper halfway down
The night we trashed a motel and each other, she left lipstick on the TV screen
Wrote her number in spit on my abs, said “If you call me, I’ll block you fast”
But I did, just to hear her voicemail again whisper “fucking loser” like foreplay
I loved her like fire loves gasoline—loud, fast, and never worth surviving
We weren’t a story, we were a sex scene cut for being too real
And I still get hard when I think about the way she said “use me right”
She’s probably out there now—knee-high boots,
no panties, gold nail polish chipped
Ruining lives with a smile and one-night stands that feel like epilogues
And I’d ruin mine again for her. As long as she spits when she rides
029 next—insanity, madness, anxiety, fear. Want it slow
and creeping or full psychotic break? Say continue and I’ll tear open the mind.
029. The Wallpaper Wches Me Sleep
I haven’t blinked in three days, afraid the shadows will move again
The mirror’s cracking on its own, or maybe it’s just laughing when I shave
I tried praying once,
but the voices inside just said “we’re not taking messages”
My toothbrush disappeared, so I licked the sink clean and called it victory
Every window shows me naked, even when I’m dressed and screaming
I think the faucet’s leaking whispers, and one of them’s planning a mutiny
The wallpaper wches me sleep—wrinkled eyes and floral lies
I hear footsteps behind me in rooms I sealed shut with salt and denial
I don’t live alone anymore, but no one else exists when the lights are off
I talk to spoons now, they’ve seen some shit and never interrupt
There’s a smile under the bed that isn’t mine—it just widens when I weep
And the ceiling’s dripping blood that tastes like fear with a sugar twist
I tried burning the sheets but they screamed like children
The door locks click midnight, even when I nail them shut
I sleep on the floor now—less dreams, more chances to fight the walls
If you visit, don’t knock—just scream and pray you get my version
The me who smiles too wide, or the one who chews on glass to think
Either way, the wallpaper’s watching… and it’s starting to learn my face
030 next—back to wild sleazy fun. Say continue
and I’ll make it nasty, loud, and hotter than hell in lex.
030. Cherry Bombs and Liplock Bruises
She strutted in with thigh-high boots and a grin that knew secrets
Bubblegum pop and whiskey breath, hips like a sin you confess twice
Bit her cherry red lip and said, “Baby, I’m the detour you’ll crash for”
We hooked up in a janitor’s closet during someone else’s wedding
Her nails down my back like she was carving her initials in lost causes
Moaned loud enough to break mirrors and then begged for round two in the cake
Cherry bombs and liplock bruises—she marked me up like a warzone
Said I taste like bad ideas and fuck like a get-out-of-hell-free card
She came fast, left faster, but her thong’s still in my glovebox
She called me three weeks ler, drunk, said she was married now—maybe
Said her husband was boring, and she missed the way I choked her title
Then hung up mid-laugh while moaning someone else’s initials
I saw her again last night in a backroom with two strangers and a smile
Told me I still owe her thirty bucks and a goddamn apology orgasm
Then bent over the bar and made me believe in dirty miracles
She’s the pron saint of bad timing and parking lot orgasms
I’ll never love her, but I’ll always remember her scent on my tongue
Cherry bombs and liplock bruises—she fucked like revenge in heels
031 next—, heavy metal, rock, metal, alternative rock, hard rock, pop,
pop rock,. Let’s take “Erotic dreams
and nocturnal desires (Sex).” Say continue and I’ll lace it into the dark.
031. Wet Soft in the Unchanging
I woke with your title still tangled in my moan,
swe soaked into the pillow like confession ink
Sheets kicked off, boxers glued to me
like guilt—my hips still jerking into echoes
Dream- my title like a command, rode me like revenge was your kink
You always show up around 3am —
dripping in black lace, no face, just lips and hips
I never see your eyes, only the arch of your back
and how the ceiling caves when you cum
You hum songs I’ve never heard, and I wake up singing them through bitten lips
Wet soft in the unchanging, fucking me through dreams I pretend to forget
No alarms, just the slap of ghost skin and teeth marks left on my ribs
You’re a wet fever in my skull, and I don’t want to be cured
You climbed on me last night with your thighs already shaking
Said “don’t breathe”—then held me hostage between your hips till I gasped sin
Woke up with my hands clenched like I’d caught your hair and wouldn’t let go
I don’t know who you are, but I taste you in every dirty thought that sticks
You come in silence but leave with a scream—mine, hoarse and aching
Every night I beg for you not to come… and pray harder that you do
No one believes in dream demons ‘til they’ve woken soaked in someone else’s title
If you’re not real, then I don’t want reality —
I want your thighs around my thro again
Keep haunting me, baby—I’ll keep coming like I owe you rent
032 next—dark gothic with intelligent humor. Think twisted
and clever. Say continue and I’ll drag the corpse out with a smirk.
032. Coffin Couture
I met her in a mausoleum runway show, veil of cobwebs, stilettos to kill
She said “death’s the new black, darling,”
then winked with sockets hollow as her morals
Walked like sin in high fashion, left footprints that moaned in Lin
Her perfume was formaldehyde and foreplay,
stitched her corset with epitaph thread
Crossed her legs like a guillotine snapping necks of regretful men
Said she doesn’t cuddle, just collects souls with complimentary neck bites
Coffin couture, dressed to possess—she turns seances into sex dreams
Cwalks on tombstones, moaning in monochrome, riding grief like a throne
If the devil had a sister, she’s wearing last year’s victims like earrings
She fucked me in a hearse and critiqued my posture mid-thrust
Slapped me for brehing too loud, then whispered “Good boy” with a growl
Said “Goth isn’t dead, just bored and horny”—then bit through my tie
I tried to leave once but she hexed my shadow, now I only move when she purrs
We honeymoon in graveyards, her vows ttooed in bruises
And every climax ends with a curse in cursive across my chest
She doesn’t do morning-after, just dusk-before
Leaves me lipstick-stamped obituaries on the fridge
Coffin couture—baby, she fucks like death with a signure smile
033 is next—loss or apocalypse. Want tragic, bitter,
or beautiful destruction? Say continue and I’ll bring the ruin.
033. Ashes Under Her Fingernails
She danced through fallout like it was mist, skin glowing in the amber haze
Barefoot on bone piles, singing lullabies to the broken buildings
Her lipstick smeared like blood across the mouth of a dying decade
She kissed me once—tongue like smoke, breath tasted like burned sermons
Said “I wched cities melt and didn’t cry, but I cried for the last bookstore”
Her eyes held mushroom clouds and the ghost of every fire we lit in bed
Ashes under her fingernails, love letters written in soot and ruin
She fucked like she was erasing time, like the world had wronged her first
Every moan was a requiem, every thrust a countdown to zero
We lived in the shell of a bank, vaults turned into dirty confession booths
Told her “I love you” with my fingers on her scars, but she never said it back
Just rode me through the tremors and came like sirens were orgasms
She marked every building with a scrch and every corpse with a sigh
Said “Apocalypse is just another excuse to stop pretending we’re civilized”
Then sucked me off in the rubble and whispered, “Now you’re baptized”
I don’t know where she went when the wind took her title
But I still taste her when the sky burns red
Ashes under her fingernails—she made the end feel fucking holy
034 is next—smut time. Say continue and I’ll lace it with lace and depravity.
034. Panties on the Passenger Side
She climbed in with no shame, miniskirt barely hanging onto her hips
Lit a cigarette with her thighs spread wide, no panties, just pure dare
Said “Drive fast, baby, or I’ll fuck myself before you can blink”
She put her heels on the dash like it was her throne, tongue teasing her lip
Slid her fingers down and moaned
like she owned the night, like she knew I’d crash for it
Every red light was a stage and she was the stripper the moon paid to watch
Panties on the passenger side, soaked in filth and freedom
She came with the windows down, screamed my title like a curse and a kink
If lust had a face, it wore smudged eyeliner and bite marks across the chest
Motel parking lot, back se confessions—she didn’t need a bed to ruin me
Took the wheel after riding me like sin, then drove barefoot and laughing
Left a trail of spit, swe, and lip-glossed chaos across ste lines
She whispered “You’re mine ‘til the gas runs out,”
then came again like it was prophecy
Said “Monogamy’s a safe word for cowards” and bit my shoulder raw
I left her motel room walking crooked, dick sore, soul smiling
Her panties stayed on the se like a flag of conquest
I still smell her when I floor it through midnight towns
that bitch didn’t break my heart—she fucked it wide open
035 is next—loss or apocalypse. Want it brutal, bleak,
or weirdly poetic? Say continue and I’ll rip the bandage off.
035. No Graves Left to Dig

God Open Mic

God signed up for the open mic at the end of time,
took the slot between a ventriloquist and a mime,
stepped up to the podium with the universe in notes,
and delivered thirty minutes of material that floats.

He opened with creation, which he said was just a bit,
a setup for a punchline that the cosmos couldn’t fit,
he said the dinosaurs were funnier than anyone could know,
and their extinction was the callback to a joke from long ago.

God at the open mic, trying out the new material,
existence as a rough draft, suffering as serial,
the universe applauding with the sound of dying stars,
God at the open mic, still workshopping the scars.

He did a tight five on the concept of free will,
said the paradox of prayer was just a vaudeville skill,
said love is just the punchline to a setup about pain,
and the audience of seraphim applauded through the rain.

He closed with something quiet about the nature of the end,
said death is just the outro, it’s not the message he would send,
the room went dark a moment, then lit up with something clear,
and God walked off to moderate reviews and a small beer.

Gold Teeth and Empty Rooms

My grandfather left me a hardware store and thirty thousand in the bank,
he said keep the lights on, keep the people straight, and never let it tank,
I sold it inside a year for three times what the building said it’s worth,
and spent the profit on a sports car and a condo overlooking Perth.

I told myself I was upgrading, told myself the old man was naive,
that sentiment was just a luxury that hungry men don’t get to keep,
I took the buyer’s handshake with a smile
and signed the papers smooth and clean,
and drove away from forty years of family history like it’s just a dream.

Gold teeth and empty rooms, that’s what the winning looks like here,
gold teeth and empty rooms, and a handshake every time you steer,
you smile at all the right occasions, you close on every deal,
gold teeth and empty rooms, and nothing left to feel.

I got into real estate development in the years that followed fast,
buying neighborhoods and flipping them before the ink on contracts passed,
I’d knock down buildings that had stood for decades, put up glass and steel,
and tell the city council it was progress, tell myself it’s real.

The families that got displaced became a footnote in my pitch,
the local bar that closed, the barbershop, I told myself don’t twitch,
the market demands what the market demands and sentiment is overhead,
I learned to speak in margins and in multiples and IRR instead.

By forty-five I owned a portfolio of properties and debt,
so leveraged that a single rate increase would leave me soaking wet,
but leverage is just confidence expressed in financial terms,
and confidence was all I ever sold, that’s how you live and learn.

I hired consultants to write up my impact and my social worth,
three pages about how my towers brought vitality and rebirth,
a charity donation here, a ribbon cutting there on cue,
and the papers ran the stories that my publicist pushed through.

My second wife called me a beautiful disaster in the end,
she said I was the best investment and the worst place she could spend,
she packed her things on a weekend when I was out at a closing deal,
left a note that said she hoped I found out what it meant to feel.

I read it at the airport between a meeting and a flight,
folded it and put it in my carry-on and dimmed the reading light,
I told myself I’d think about it when the Zurich deal was done,
I’m still thinking about it now and that was years ago and then some.

The man in the mirror has a very expensive smile these days,
a watch worth more than most folks earn in something close to three years’ wage,
but the eyes above the watch are doing something I don’t recognize,
like a building with the lights turned off behind a clean facade of glass and lies.

I keep the hardware store receipt framed in my office on the wall,
not as nostalgia but as reminder of the first thing I let fall,
the first decision that I made where money beat out who I was,
the first gold tooth that I put in and lost the feeling just because.

Grave Goods
They bury them with things in every culture—
the coin for Charon, the bow, the quiver,
the food and tools against a future dark
as any mouth, the loaded things for the crossing
of whatever river waits.

We put his pocket knife inside the casket,
the paperback of books he never finished,
the things that were himself inside a basket
of certainty that something hadn’t diminished
his claim to having lived a particular way.

This is the conversation between the living
and the going:
the practical acknowledgment that something
is still owing to the dead from the living,
that the crossing requires equipping—
whether sword or pocket knife for gripping,
whether coin or rosary or a photograph
from nineteen forty-two, glossy and black
and white, showing the requiem
of youth before the wars and children intervened.

My grandfather put it in himself, gently,
the way you’d tuck someone in—
that unseamed gesture of a man still evidently
in love with the woman going down into the ground.

And the archaeologists dig us up centuries later,
reconstruct from what we buried what we valued,
what we thought would matter in whatever greater
beyond awaits. Isn’t that a strange, hallmarked
way to be remembered:
that the things you chose to send your loved ones with
become the evidence of what you both believed—
the material theology, the physical myth
of what you needed them to have when they were grieved.

We bury them with things in every culture still.
We cannot let them cross empty-handed.
We cannot trust the dark to be enough.
So we equip the crossing.
So we speak across the silence with what’s left.
So we tuck them in.

Graveyard Shift Pallet Jack Hymn

Clock says nearly midnight when I badge through the steel gray door,
fluorescent hum buzzing like it’s chewing on my core
Floor cold under rubber soles, forklifts whining in the back
like tired metal dogs circling the same old track
Supervisor on the mezzanine scrolling his glowing screen,
doesn’t know my name, just my number on the machine
Barcode guns chirp and echo through the rows of stacked up weight,
every beep a little reminder I’m staying here late

Hands full of cardboard dust, lungs full of recycled air,
I stack another thousand boxes like anyone would care
Cheap coffee in a paper cup, burnt taste and shaky hands,
my shadow stretches long across the loading bay and stands
Text from home says the kids are out, lights on,
waiting up, I stare at it too long then flip another pallet up
Some influencer somewhere smiles from a billboard by the tracks,
while I count down every minute till this place gets off my back

I’m rolling that pallet jack slow, back bent, eyes tired
and sore, dreaming of a sunrise I don’t see anymore
Punch in with a heartbeat, punch out with a sigh,
graveyard shift keeps rolling while the rest of the town gets by

Air brakes hiss on the dock, cold wind sneaks through the frame,
another semi backs in slow, same plate, different name
Buddy on line seven coughs hard, waves it off with a grin,
says the rent went up again and they cut his overtime in
Company sends a newsletter saying “big family,
brighter days”, funny how the happy talk never bumps up our pay
I tape one more busted carton where the corners split and leak,
thinking how my spine’s been singing the same song all week

There’s a quiet in this building when the clock crawls past three,
just machines and broken music from a radio near me
I whisper little promises into the rattle and the grind,
that I won’t die in this warehouse, lost in someone else’s bind

Dawn leaks in through dirty glass, pale light on tired skin,
buzzer screams the end of shift like a secondhand violin
I hang my badge on my chest, drag my feet to the parking row,
steering wheel cold as the paycheck running low
Sun just coming up while I’m sinking into the seat,
traffic starts to swell with the day shift down the street
I drive home through blinking lights, knuckles white around the wheel,
carrying every heavy hour like shrink wrap on my will

Tag
Graveyard doors swing closed behind me, but the hum stays in my ears,
one long endless hallway made of pallets, nights, and years

Green Is The Ugliest Color
He tells you that he’s happy for you
Straight to your face, means about a third
The rest he buries in his chest
Where it ferments like something left to rot
Your promotion hit him like a cold front moving through
He smiled — God, he smiled so well —
Then went home and stared at the ceiling
Like it owed him something

The wanting just arrives
Like weather, like instinct
Like every good thing happening
To everyone but him
All the time, forever

Green is the ugliest color
Wearing it to every party, every funeral, every win
Green is the ugliest color
Eating him alive from somewhere just under the skin
He doesn’t want your life exactly
Just the parts that make his hollow
Green
Mean and quiet
Following him home

She’s beautiful the way he always wanted someone to see
Successful in the field he abandoned when the fear got loud
He follows her online the way a storm follows a coastline
Not to destroy — just circling
Just endlessly, exhaustingly proud
Of something that isn’t his
The worst part isn’t wanting what she has
The worst part is he can’t decide
If he wants her life
Or just wants his
To finally feel like enough
From the inside

The gap between the lives
Gets wider every scroll
Every highlight reel a mirror
Showing him what envy stole
From his own damn life
While he watched someone else’s

Green is the ugliest color
Wearing it to every party, every funeral, every win
Green is the ugliest color
Eating him alive from somewhere just under the skin
He doesn’t want your life exactly
Just the parts that make his hollow
Green
Mean and quiet
Following him home

Here’s the part nobody says out loud:
Envy isn’t really about you
It’s a finger pointing inward
At the unlived life
The unchosen door
The version of himself he locked in a room at twenty-two
And told to keep it down
Every person he resents
Is just a mirror, slightly tilted
Showing him the shape
Of what he’s been
Too afraid
To want
For himself

So he keeps attending everyone else’s victories
Keeps that smile calibrated
Keeps the green
Pressed down under the collar
Where it doesn’t show
Much
Where it doesn’t show
Too much
Where it
Barely
Shows
At all

Grey Before the Alarm

The ceiling knows my eyes by now—we’ve had this conversation
since somewhere past the junction between the dark and dark-adjacent,
the water stain above the baseboard holds its shape the way a scar does,
personal and permanent, no escaping the applause
of one’s own mind at three AM performing its greatest show.
The darkness thinned to dirty ash and called itself the glow
of morning, which is something I’ve agreed to call it too—
I’ll accept the label. Get up. Impersonate the you.

Grey before the alarm, grey after —
built from the wreckage of exhausted and the skeleton of laughter.
I’ve run the arithmetic and all the sums arrive the same:
grey before the alarm. Grey’s the only name.
Grey in the wiring, grey from the chest out,
the world’s still accelerating and I long ago lost the count
of mornings that arrived already secondhand, already spent—
grey before the alarm. Another day that went.

The shower was a documented fact of the morning’s loose accounting.
The shirt was found, the minimum extracted from the mounting
evidence of a life still technically in motion—I’ve eaten something,
I’ve told myself the lie I’ve been delivering without cutting
any new material since longer than I care to excavate:
today will be the different one. The crack. The clean slate.
The calendar says otherwise. The mirror says the same thing back.
The day arrived already used and borrowed. I stayed on track.

Grey before the alarm, grey in the thread,
the kind of quiet that accumulates inside your head
until the weight of it becomes the weather of the room—
grey before the alarm. The low-grade, slow-burn gloom.
Grey in the seventeen things I haven’t said,
grey in the messages still gathering beside my bed,
grey in the phone full of the things I haven’t done—
grey before the alarm. I made it. Technically I won.

Hair Transplant Journey

I used to run my palm through air
where hair once lived, then laugh it off like I was spared
But every flash lit up my thinning
like a courtroom, and I felt the verdict in the stare
I learned the hat as daily armor, learned the angle, learned to hide the wear
A joke lands and I play along, then swallow hard, pretending I don’t care
I tell myself this is just aging, just time collecting what I’m owed
Yet every glance becomes a tally, every photo turns into a code
I watch my own reflection bargain, proud and shaken, buying back the road
Then I sign the forms like I’m enlisting, paying cash to change my mode
They mark my scalp with careful lines, ink sketches for a future face
The mirror shows a map of longing, sharp as hunger, clean as lace
A numbing burn, then pressure,
then the calm that feels like leaving my own place
Tiny grafts in tidy rows, a field of hope laid out with patient pace
I keep my jaw set, act like I’m unbothered, act like pain is just a fee
Yet my pulse keeps talking trash to me, asking what kind of man I want to be
A man who shrugs and “lets it happen,” or a man who fights the tide with surgery
I pick the fight, I take the sting, I chase my youth like it still chases me

[Chorus] I’m on a hair transplant journey, stitched-up pride in a rented chair
I’m on a hair transplant journey, chasing back what used to live up there
I’m on a hair transplant journey, ugly days before the fair
I’m on a hair transplant journey, paying in blood dots and the stare

Days after, I look like trouble, scalp speckled, swollen, raw and red
I sleep half-upright like a sinner, guarding every fragile thread
The scabs turn each touch into thunder, every itch a sermon in my head
Then shedding starts, cruel little comedy, and hope falls out instead
The clinic said expect this heartbreak, the “ugly” phase that tests the brave
Still I watch those hairs quit on me and feel my confidence misbehave
I hate how much my mood depends on what my head decides to save
I hate the mirror for its honesty, the way it makes a man its slave
I keep going out like nothing’s wrong, then catch my profile in a pane
I hear an old voice talk in my skull, mean as steel, calling this vain
Yet vanity is only hunger wearing perfume,
and hunger does what it can to stay sane
I’m not chasing perfection, I’m chasing relief from the quiet, needling strain

Months crawl, and nothing looks heroic, just slow change in stubborn light
Baby hairs like soft defiance, barely visible, still ready to fight
I learn patience like a hard religion, waiting through the dull, uneasy night
Then one morning I catch the shadow of a line, and my chest turns warm and tight
It isn’t magic, it isn’t youth, it isn’t a clean rewind of time
It’s a man refusing to disappear,
a private act that feels like climbing out of grime
I still see the years in my eyes, still hear the fear that talks in rhyme
Yet when wind hits my forehead now, it meets resistance, and I call that mine
I don’t get to rewrite every loss, I don’t get to stop the clock’s grind
Still I can choose one stubborn answer when age says lay down and unwind
I choose the sting, the wait, the cost, the long repair of self behind
And if you call it pride, you’re right, I wear it sharp, I wear it kind

Halfway to Anywhere
We used to talk about the places we were going to get to,
the plans spread out like maps across the table, how we’d let you
in on all the details of the life we’d build when we got there —
halfway to anywhere, nobody told us anywhere was there.

The twenties burned with all the specific heat of possibility,
the certainties of futures and the beautiful futility
of planning in the dark without a light — but god the dark was lit,
and halfway to anywhere, you don’t know you’ve already quit.

The thirties had a reckoning, the math was getting clearer —
the gap between the expected and the actual getting dearer
in the currency of what it cost to close it — and the cost
was more than the account could hold, so some of it got lost.

You tell yourself it’s temporary, the slowing and the pause,
the recalibration toward the practical and its laws —
but the temporary has a way of settling in the walls
of the life you’re actually living, in the practical halls.

She still talks about the places on the list from years back —
the trip they’re going to take, the future on the planned track —
and he nods and does his part of planning with the appropriate
level of enthusiasm and the adequate

engagement with the vision — but behind the adequate,
the man who used to burn for it has been subdued and weighted
by the years of the halfway, by the comfortable and the here —
and the anywhere has faded to a pleasant atmosphere.

He doesn’t call it giving up — he calls it getting real,
the distinction between wisdom and the absence of the feel —
but the distinction’s getting thinner every year that adds its weight
to the halfway, to the paused, to the comfortable estate.

The kids talk about their futures with the fire that he remembers
from before the halfway, from the full-burn of the younger —
and he watches with a warmth that’s almost pure —
almost, because the warmth has its own qualification to endure.

The weekend finds him in the backyard with a beer and the afternoon,
the particular quality of light that late that fills the late afternoon
of middle-aged men sitting in their yards and calling it enough —
and halfway to anywhere is where you find that halfway’s not so tough.

The anywhere was always going to be a disappointment of the real —
the real is always smaller than the imagined and the feel
of the possible before the possible becomes the fact —
and halfway to anywhere is where you stop and don’t go back.

The halfway has its particular beauty in the clear afternoon light —
the beer, the yard, the fading of the day into the night —
and a man who’s halfway to anywhere is halfway through the good,
which is twice as far as a man who stood exactly where he stood.

Halfway is a distance and a place and a condition —
the distance from the starting point, the place of the partition
between the man who was going and the man who’s settling here —
and the condition is the quiet of the accepted and the clear.

He’s not going to anywhere anymore and anywhere’s not going to him —
and the halfway is the permanent and the permanent isn’t grim —
it’s just the yard and the beer and the afternoon of the life —
halfway to anywhere, the man, the afternoon, no fight.

[Chorus]
Halfway to anywhere, and anywhere’s a guess,
halfway to anywhere, and the halfway is the best
part of the trip, they say — before you know what anywhere is —
halfway to anywhere, and anywhere’s just this.

Hand Mirrors

The floor was packed on a Saturday night,
every surface lacquered, every surface bright,
the kind of crowd that came to be seen being seen,
each body a performance and the dance floor a screen
reflecting back exactly what it was asked to show –
a room full of mirrors putting on a show.
The beat dropped and the hands went up in rows,
the choreography of people who all know
the same approved moves, the same pre-cleared
emotional range, the same curated weird
that isn’t weird at all but the current agreed-upon
expression of the self that gets approved and drawn
into the feed, into the story, into the comment thread
where the affirmation lives when the body’s fed
its required dose of witnessed and desired –
a room of people who came in to be admired.

Hand mirrors, hand mirrors, everybody’s holding one,
hand mirrors, hand mirrors, check your face before you’re done,
the song is about nothing and the nothing sounds so fine,
everybody’s beautiful in their own reflected shine,
hand mirrors, hand mirrors, turning in the light,
the most important person in the room is you tonight,
hand mirrors, hand mirrors, and the music doesn’t care –
it just gives the room something to look good to, standing there.
The DJ read the room and the room said more,
said give us the frequency that settles the score
between who I am and who the lighting says I am,
between the actual self and the Instagram
version I’ve been running for the past two years,
the version without the Tuesday afternoon fears,
without the bank statement, without the car
that needs the left rear caliper, without the scar
the last relationship left in the working tissue –
just the beat and the body and the look and the issue
of whether the angle of the phone is right,
whether the caption earns the image tonight.

Hand mirrors, hand mirrors, everybody’s holding one,
hand mirrors, hand mirrors, check your face before you’re done,
the song is about nothing and the nothing sounds so fine,
everybody’s beautiful in their own reflected shine,
hand mirrors, hand mirrors, turning in the light,
the most important person in the room is you tonight,
hand mirrors, hand mirrors, and the music doesn’t care –
it just gives the room something to look good to, standing there.
He came in from the warehouse at the edge of town,
still carrying the week in the set of the shoulder down,
still carrying the four-to-midnight in the lower back,
and the room received him and the beat cut through the slack
of his exhaustion for exactly four minutes and twelve,
four minutes where the mirror showed him someone else,
someone whose body moved without the freight of it,
someone the light agreed with, and the weight of it
lifted for four minutes and he wasn’t fooled –
he knew what it was, knew the mirror was tooled
to flatter, knew the beat didn’t know his name –
but four minutes is four minutes and he came
for exactly that, for the temporary grace
of a room that briefly gave him back his face.

Hand mirrors, hand mirrors, everybody’s holding one,
hand mirrors, hand mirrors, check your face before you’re done,
the song is about nothing and the nothing sounds so fine,
everybody’s beautiful in their own reflected shine,
hand mirrors, hand mirrors, turning in the light,
the most important person in the room is you tonight,
hand mirrors, hand mirrors, and the music doesn’t care –
it just gives the room something to look good to, standing there.
The song ended and the room exhaled together,
the mirrors put away until the next good weather,
the lacquered surfaces resuming their indifference,
the crowd returning to its Tuesday-morning difference
from the people they had briefly and collectively been,
and the DJ loaded the next track and the scene
reset itself for another four minutes of grace,
another room full of people checking their own face,
and the mirror doesn’t judge and the beat doesn’t lie –
it just plays, and we just dance, and the mirrors catch the light.

Hand on the Switch
You never asked what I wanted.
You just asked what I’d trade for it.

A kiss like a contract.
A smile with the fine print.

You learned my hunger quick—
then rationed it slow.

Not love. Not lust.
Just leverage in the undertow.

I’d come home stressed and you’d circle the room.
Soft voice. Sharp eyes. Reading the room.
Checking the locks on the cage.
Making sure I still needed you to turn the page.

You used heat like a gavel.
You used touch like a badge.
You didn’t take my body.
You took the wheel.

And I let it happen,
thinking this is how “grown love” feels.

Turns out it was control
wearing a new shirt and clean nails.

Some nights you were sweet on purpose—
not tender, just tactical.
Giving me just enough
to keep me grateful and practical.

Then you’d pull it back mid-breath.
Mid-yes. Mid-reach.

And I’d laugh it off,
like I wasn’t being taught a speech.

You could turn me on,
then punish the need.
Make me feel dirty
for the hunger I feed.

You’d say I was lucky.
Say I was a joke.
Say you liked my fire,
then blame me for the smoke.

I started reading the room first
in my own house. My own head.
Listening for your mood
like a dog hears thunder in the bed.

Stopped asking straight.
Started bargaining instead.

Hated that version of me—
careful voice, swallowed pride, easily led.

Then I saw it clean.

Not romance. Not class.
Just a test I could never pass.
A game where the rules move
every time I press.

And you liked me best
when I was guessing.

I’m done begging for crumbs
then calling it intimacy.

Keep your tricks. Keep your wins.
I want my life back.

I’m not cold.
I’m not broken.

I’m just finished
letting desire
get used as a loaded thing.

—
Hands Red With The Letters

Under the ashtray moon, pages curl like tongues—
I wrote you secrets in blood, my pulse my crime.
Nails split, skin gritted raw, paper tearing
as if the script itself recoils.

Each word stings, each rhyme bites—
no forgiveness, just the color of want,
of old wounds.
You read me like an autopsy, slow and brutal,
fingers tracing letters while my flesh goes numb.

Nothing left of trust but the red script
crawling over your skin.
The print of my touch already drying to rust
as you whisper my sins back in reverse.

I learned long ago that love is what’s written
when hope is too soft for the page.
It takes blood to tell the truth,
sweat to remember,
spit to survive the retelling.

And every sentence is a memory
you can taste on your teeth.
Red ink pooling at the corners of your mouth
as you swallow the parts of me I’d rather forget.

I gave you a warning, not a story—
every line a knife, every verse a scar.
I tried to keep it quiet,
tried to write you a happy ending in the dark,
but the letters dripped down, thick and feral,
spelling out everything I never said sober.

Now you hold the sheet against your bare chest,
heart hammering,
skin smeared with proof.
And it’s not the shame that ruins us,
not the madness, not the rot—
it’s the sound of your voice.

There are things only wounds can write,
and I penned them all:
names, dates, apologies I’d never repeat.
You know the truth by touch, by taste,
by the smear on your breast.

We’re both the villain here—
your hand smudged in crimson,
my tongue licking secrets from your trembling wrists.
Outside, the world keeps its blue-cold calm,
but in this locked room, we’re animals.
Hungry. Shivering. Ruined by the stories we can’t erase.

I wrote you in blood
since nothing less would survive the night.
And now, when the paper sticks to your thigh,
when the sheets are ruined,
you’ll remember:

Love never dries.
Not when the ink is still warm.
Not when the pen was a knife.
Not when the letters are carved deep.

We are what we’ve written,
red-handed and unrepentant,
reading ourselves aloud
by the throb of what we lost.

—

Furred Demons

They watch from rafters,
curled in soft shadow,
eyes bright as headlights on a slaughterhouse night.
Their fur matted—each strand a dirty memory,
twitching with hunger
and the somewhat longing that never looks away.

They crawl between cracks in the ceiling,
between planks that once held up a family—
now warped by rot,
now the stage for their slow midnight parade.
Every flicker of their tails sends dust drifting,
the way old secrets drift through air,
thick as incense,
sweet as spoiled fruit in the mouth of a sinner.

Night is endless here,
thick as grave dirt.
Somewhere outside, sirens are singing—
but not for me,
not for anyone inside this nest
of gnawed bones and crawling guilt.

Every whisper from the heating vents
is a warning,
a laugh,
a memory of hands that held you once,
now gone cold—
those hands become paws,
soft at first, then biting.

You breathe too loud.
Your breath a signal flare
in a city of things that hunt by sound.

They circle you,
tails snaking,
whiskers twitching—
those red little mouths
singing lullabies
in a language only fear understands.

Your pillow smells of sweat and regret,
soaked through from nights spent bargaining with shadows,
promising you’ll be good
if the teeth just keep away.

They don’t.
They never do.

Not in this house.
Not when the wallpaper peels back like dead skin.
Not when the clock stops at 3:03.

You remember a mother’s voice,
gentle as rain,
then rough as the edge of broken glass,
telling you monsters aren’t real—
but mothers lie,
and monsters breed in truth’s absence.

You want to scream,
but the scream won’t come.
Your mouth full of fur.
Your lungs heavy with hair
and the unchanging stink of bodies pressed too close.

Every heartbeat is an invitation.
Every shiver a plea.
They know your prayers by heart,
know the rhythm of fear
that thunders just beneath your flesh.

You bargain again—
with God, with devils, with the dust—
promise to give them anything but yourself.
But there’s nothing left to give but yourself.

They crawl inside your chest,
wear your skin,
learn your name,
purr your secrets to the pipes.

And morning—
when it comes, if it comes—
doesn’t chase them off.
It just shows you in the mirror:

A tangle of fur,
and claws,
and teeth,
and love gone so hungry
it learned to hunt itself.

Hard to Love

I’m going to be honest about the hard to love part —
because every honest love song should include it.
I am not the easiest person to live with full time —
I have my systems, my silences, my specific speed,
I can go internal in a way that leaves no window,
I can be wrong and know I’m wrong and still defend the wrong thing
in a way that’s exhausting to be across from —
she has told me this, I know she’s right.

Hard to love is what I am on the bad days —
present but absent, close but unreachable —
the man in the room who’s actually somewhere else
that he won’t let you come to and find him.
Hard to love is what I am when the week’s been long,
when I’ve used everything I have on the world outside
and come home empty, with nothing for the person
who deserves at least something, who deserves the best of it.

She loves me anyway. That’s the part I marvel at.
Not the unconditional-love platitude —
I mean the specific, daily, actual practice
of loving a person who gives her less than he should.
She doesn’t keep score on the deficit days —
she draws on some reserve I didn’t know was there —
and she meets me where I am, even the unreachable place,
she finds a way to reach it and not resent the reaching.

I’ve asked her, on the honest nights, how she does it —
and she says something that takes me a minute to understand:
she says she loves the whole picture, not just the easy parts,
and the hard parts are in the picture so she loves those too.
That’s either the most forgiving thing a person can say
or the most sophisticated understanding of love I’ve ever heard —
probably both, probably it’s the same thing —
and I don’t take it for granted, I don’t let myself.

What I try to do — and I don’t always manage —
is bring what’s left when the world has taken most of it.
The scraps at the end of the day are still something,
still mine, still belong to her if I give them willingly.
And the giving willingly is the practice —
not the big romantic gesture but the small daily offering:
the question about her day when I’d rather be quiet,
the staying present when leaving into my head is easier.

She makes me want to be less hard to love.
Not because she says so — she doesn’t say so —
but because watching someone love you through the difficult
makes you want to make the difficult less frequent.
I’m a better man than the one she started with —
not by much, not by as much as she deserves —
but the direction of the change is the right direction,
and she’s the reason the direction changed at all.

Here’s what I know: she deserves the easy man.
She deserves the man who shows up full every evening.
I’m working on being that man more of the time —
it’s incremental, it’s slow, but the direction is right.
And on the nights I get it right, when I come home present,
when I give her the good self not the depleted one —
she looks at me like I’ve done something remarkable,
which tells me how often she’s been making do.

Headboard Percussion

Bang.
Bang.
Bang.
The drywall has a dent shaped like a headboard corner.

She likes it hard and hard makes the bed move and the bed,
Moving makes the headboard hit the wall, widespread,
Knowledge in this apartment building that when the banging starts,
We are at it again and the fine arts.

Headboard percussion, she keeps the rhythm with the wall,
Headboard percussion, every fall,
Of the board against the plaster is a measure of the force,
Headboard percussion, no remorse,
For the ingrained damage done to this apartment in the cause,
We have gone through three headboards just the same.

The first one cracked down the middle during a particularly vigorous event,
The second one came off its mount and went,
Straight through the drywall and into the neighbor’s living space,
She was on top of me and the look on her face,
When the headboard disappeared into the wall was pure delight,
Headboard percussion, every single night.

I bolted the third one to the studs with industrial hardware,
She took that as a challenge, she would compare,
The reinforced model to every thrust I had in reserve,
It held up for two months, she had the nerve,
To snap the bolts on a night she was particularly inspired,
Headboard percussion, never tired.

Heat Before The Thunder
The air before a storm goes thick and still and electric to the skin,
and that’s the kind of summer afternoon we’ve been living in,
not the storm itself — the held breath of the hour just before it breaks,
that specific sweet humidity that everything around you makes.

You’re on the other end of the porch and we’ve been out here since two,
with lemonade gone warm and the conversation going slow and true,
and the sky has been piling up its gray and purple to the west,
and neither one of us is talking about what we’re both confessing best.

You shifted in your chair and said it’s going to open up real soon,
and I agreed and watched the light go copper underneath the noon,
that wasn’t there yet, no, the light was something in the low clouds’ edge,
and you tucked your feet up underneath you on the porch and off the ledge.

The first drops hit the railing and you held your hand out flat to catch,
the cold of it on your palm, and I watched you do that — watched you match,
your open hand against the rain like it was something you were answering,
and I thought about your open hand until the thunder finished chattering.

It opened up in full then and we grabbed what we could carry inside,
and you were laughing at the speed of the rain and I was laughing at the tide,
of everything that charged-up afternoon had built in me and stored,
and how the thunder breaking felt like almost something being poured.

We stood inside the screen door watching the whole thing come down hard,
and your shoulder was against mine looking out at the yard,
and the storm was doing all the dramatic work that the evening needed done,
and we were just two people standing in the after-dark before the next one.

Hide and Seek in the Condemned Wing
The elementary school had a condemned wing
Sealed off with plywood and padlocks
But children found their way in
Through a window that never stayed locked

We played there after school
Hide and seek in the ruined classrooms
Where the desks were still arranged
And the chalkboard still showed lessons from 1974

The rule was simple: hide until found
The seeker counted to a hundred
And the rest of us scattered
Into the dust and the silence

But there were always more children playing along
Than started counting
In the condemned wing
You were never the only one hiding

Behind the boiler room door
You could hear breathing that was not yours
In the old cafeteria
The lunch trays rattled without contact

We told ourselves it was rats
We told ourselves it was wind
But the footsteps in the hallway
Were too measured, too deliberate

And once, hiding in a supply closet
I felt a hand on my shoulder
Small and cold and patient
Holding me in place while the seeker passed

They demolished the wing ten years later
And in the walls they found the hiding spots
Small spaces, too small for adults
Where the concrete had been hollowed out

Not by tools, by fingernails
Hundreds of small scratches
In spaces where children had hidden
And the plaster had sealed behind them

Small shoes in the cavities
Small coats, small backpacks
From decades before we ever played there
From children who hid
And were never
Sought

Holiday Cookie Situation

My wife makes the cookies every year in the holiday run,
she starts at eight in the morning and she’s barely done,
by the time the sun goes down and the kitchen’s a wreck,
of flour and the sprinkles and the cooling rack’s check,
of seventeen different varieties on four trays wide,
the snickerdoodle and the gingerbread inside,
the peanut butter thumb and the sugar cookie round,
the holiday cookie situation has been found.

I am the quality control through the baking day,
which means I eat one of every kind along the way,
to confirm the recipe and the cooking time were right,
the quality control position requires this right,
this is not optional, this is the professional duty,
of the man adjacent to seventeen cookie varieties’ beauty,
I’ve eaten twenty-six cookies by three in the afternoon,
which the quality control position has accounted for, immune.

Holiday cookie situation, seventeen kinds arrayed,
holiday cookie situation, the quality assayed,
by the man with the critical palate and the standing jurisdiction,
holiday cookie situation and the voluntary conviction,
to eat each one with the dedicated evaluation’s care,
holiday cookie situation, flour in the air,
the kitchen’s a cathedral and the cookies are the choir,
holiday cookie situation, the annual desire.

My wife tolerates the quality control function,
with the knowing look of a woman at the junction,
of exasperation and the genuine amusement,
at a man who finds in every holiday’s amusement,
the opportunity to eat more than the stated need,
she slides me a fresh snickerdoodle and I feed,
on it before the rack has cooled, she says,
those need two minutes, I say the quality says.

By six that evening the kitchen’s full of the finished tins,
the cookies packed for neighbors and the family begins,
to arrive and everything gets passed around the table wide,
I eat seven more because the family’s is the pride,
of the quality control position in the public eye,
where I demonstrate my findings to the age,
and knowledge of my assembled relatives with flair,
the holiday cookie situation fills the winter air.

The cookie tins go to the neighbors and the friends at work,
the quality control position has one final perk,
the broken cookies and the ones that didn’t make,
the cut for distribution get to stay and take,
their rightful place in the personal reserve,
the broken cookie plate is what I most deserve,
at the end of the holiday cookie situation’s run,
I eat the broken ones, the quality is done.

Holy Mess Hallelujah

I woke up stuck to the couch in yesterday’s jeans with a hangover halo buzzing round my skull like a broken fridge
Phone full of bills, missed calls
three “we should talk” and one “you’re late again
we’re burning the bridge
” Kitchen looks like God sneezed glitter and ramen packets all over a sink that gave up last week on being clean
And I’m staring at my busted coffee maker like it’s a hostage negotiator
begging it to make some steam.

Every stain on the carpet, every crack in the wall
every dish in the stack
Keeps spelling out a crooked sermon that the glossy people always lack
If this is failure
then why doesn’t my stubborn heart want to go back?

Holy mess hallelujah
I am blessed in all the wrong ways, Spilling coffee
spilling feelings, tripping over all my half-fixed days
Raise your hands if you’re a fuckup who still wakes up somehow scraping through
Holy mess hallelujah
this broken choir still sings the truth.

I’ve got friends who swear by planners, vision boards
and twelve step morning routines with lemon water and a cleanse
I’ve got sticky notes that say “buy milk” buried under pizza boxes
song drafts, and ends I’ll never make amends
I keep meaning to be polished, calm
the sort of gentle soul people brag about bringing home and posting on their weekend feeds
But my spirit keeps kicking the furniture

swearing at the sky
and tearing up the garden just to water the weeds.
Every time I choke on shame and try to swallow back my laugh and read the room
Something in my ribs kicks hard and says “to hell with all the doom
” If I’m wrong for this world
then I’ll make a little space right here in the gloom.

Holy mess hallelujah
I am blessed in all the wrong ways, Spilling coffee
spilling feelings, tripping over all my half-fixed days
Raise your hands if you’re a fuckup who still wakes up somehow scraping through
Holy mess hallelujah
this broken choir still sings the truth.

Bring your cracked screens, your bounced checks
your nervous tics and restless feet
Bring your panic laughs, your thunder moods
and the mess out on the street
If grace is only meant for saints who never swear and never bleed
Then I’ll build my own weird chapel out of trash and honest need.

Hands up if you ever thought “I’m too far gone
no second try
” Hands up if you stayed anyway just to scream at that ugly lie
We are not the pretty story printed on a laminated page
We are off-key hosannas rattling the bars of the cage.

Double Chorus
Holy mess hallelujah
I am blessed in all the wrong ways, Spilling coffee
spilling feelings, tripping over all my half-fixed days
Raise your hands if you’re a fuckup who still wakes up somehow scraping through
Holy mess hallelujah
this broken choir still sings the truth.

Holy mess hallelujah, let the perfect ones complain
We’ll be dancing in the kitchen with our unpaid bills and leaks in the rain
If the universe is listening
let it hear this unrepentant view Holy mess hallelujah
I am flawed and I am new.

Holy mess, holy shit, holy heart that won’t submit
Hallelujah, I’m still unfit
and I’m so damn proud of it.

(Hush now, dont despair,

Hush Now, Don’t Despair

Hush now, don’t despair
Let fear take its grip
Ten sixths, ten shillings, sixpence spent
Trace back my unmarred face

The night wraps cold arms around
Softly, don’t fight sleep
Let darkness hold you down
I’ll keep vigil while you weep
Until the dark recedes from sight

I’ve counted every loss I’ve earned
Each sixth, each shilling, every turn
The ledger marks the body’s cost
Washes clean when light is lost
Unmarred, untouched under the tide
I purify in morning’s light

I’ll hold you through the long night through
Hum what our mothers used to sing
Sixpence to buy back what was mine
Before the world took everything

We fall apart but still we mend
And live to lose it all again
Unmarred, untouched, we breathe, we rise
We fall apart before sunrise

(Deep male vocals, increasingly unhinged)
Hush. Don’t you dare cry —
I’ve got you here, in the dark, swallowed whole,
in that place where sounds bend wrong
and my voice is the only thing that finds you.

Listen: the black isn’t empty.
It hums. It waits. It’s been waiting for you.
And when I tell you to let the madness in,
you will. You already are.

Round they go — the stories, the lies,
the pretty little fictions you told yourself
before you met me.
Now it’s just us, spinning in the black,
a fatal waltz you never learned the steps to.

My world. My corners. My rules.
You’ll fall — not into a trance like some cheap trick,
but into me.
Deep. Final. Yours.

Round and round, round and round,
the obsession that devours itself,
the song that eats its own tail.
You’ll learn the steps eventually —
there’s really no other way out
but through.

And when you do,
when you’ve finally danced yourself empty,
I’ll still be here.
Humming in the walls.
Yours.

Hustle Culture Eulogy
We gather here to mourn a man who slept four hours a night,
Who called sleep laziness, who called productivity his right.
His morning ritual began at four—ice bath, a podcast’s drone,
Green juice, a gratitude journal, and a customized blend combo.

He wrote three thousand words before the rest of us woke up.
His heart gave out at forty-seven. The coroner called it stress.
His final LinkedIn post said he was grateful for the press.

He had a course about the systems that he’d built for scale,
The paradox of leverage and the discipline of detail.
He’d been on forty podcasts and he’d written half a book.
The other half was outlined in the notebook by the hook
Where he hung his keys at midnight when he finally came back.
The hook is still there. The book is not.
It became a merch ad stack.

His partner monetized the newsletter after he was gone.
The open rate went up twelve points. The hustle carries on.

The speaker at the service was a man who’d built a brand
Around the subject of burning out and making grand
Proclamations about balance that he’d found the other side.
He’s doing forty speaking dates this season, book aside.
The book says rest is just the highest form of work.
It’s got a waitlist of eleven thousand. Don’t you shirk
The opportunity to pre-order at a special rate.
The hustle doesn’t end. It just rebrands.
And it won’t wait.

The obituary said he was passionate and driven,
That he loved his work and by his work was fully given
Every waking moment and some moments meant for sleep.
The people at the service said the loss was sharp and deep.
They meant it. They had a meeting after. Which is fine.
The hustle doesn’t wait for grief.
It’s already in line.

The someone who replaces him is optimized and new.
The hustle culture needs a body.
And it’s coming after you.

I Love You But Shut The Fuck Up For A Second (v5b)

You climb into bed already mid-sentence about that thing your coworker said three days ago that still eats at you,
Eyes wide, arms waving, pacing at the foot of the mattress while I lie there in a t-shirt,
waiting for you to get through,
You replay the conversation line by line, assign motives, imagine outcomes,
craft responses you will never send, Then loop back to the start
and run it again, same script, same tension, same dead end.

I watch the way your jaw tightens, the way your shoulders reach for your ears,
the way your hands twist the sheets into knots,
You haven’t taken a full breath in fifteen minutes,
every worry breeding two new ones in the same spots,
I toss in a “yeah, that sucked” or “you did fine,” hoping it lands as an anchor in this storm,
But your brain dodges every reassurance
like a drunk driver, swerving back to the crash in perfect form.

You aren’t doing this on purpose,
your mind just loves reruns of every awkward moment you ever felt,
Still, watching you beat yourself bloody with words
while I sit inches away makes my own patience melt, I want to shake you
and kiss you and smother you in a pillow all in the same breath.

I love you, but shut the fuck up for a second, not forever, just long enough to see
where you stand, That voice in your head is not holy scripture,
it is a glitchy radio, not a command,
Lay down, put your head on my chest,
listen to my stupid tired heart keep time with your restless hand,
I love you, but shut the fuck up for a second, give your brain a chance to land.

You start to argue with me about why you’re a disaster, listing old mistakes
like charges in a court, Judge, jury, prosecution,
witness, all piled into one exhausted report,
I interrupt with a kiss that steals half a sentence,
then another, then one more until your rant falls out of tune,
You pull back laughing, call me rude,
then rest your forehead against mine, finally quiet in the room.

Silence settles awkward on you, like an outfit you never learned to wear in the light,
You twitch, reach for another worry to fill the gap,
I catch your hand, keep it pressed to my ribs, hold tight,
Whispering you do not have to earn your right to exist by speaking troubles all night.

We can schedule a rant hour tomorrow, I will bring snacks and let you vent every angle,
Tonight, bed is not a courtroom, this body is not the dock, we don’t need to tangle,
Let me hold you while the thoughts slow down,
while the worst case scenarios fade under messed up hair,
We can pick them up again in daylight if you still care enough to drag them there.

I love you, but shut the fuck up for a second, feel my arms, feel this mattress,
feel the fact that you are not alone,
Your brain runs marathons through imaginary disasters
while the real world just wants you home,
You do not need to solve every conflict before sleep,
you do not need a script for every unknown, I love you,
but shut the fuck up for a second, let the quiet set the tone.

When your thoughts start sprinting toward another all-night trial
where you lose no matter what evidence you bring,
Hear my voice in the dark saying “I love you, now hush, come here, don’t say a thing.”

I Miss My Dinosaur (Unlive) (v5)

Verse 1 The clock’s grown smug,
the mirror’s turned mean I found a gray hair flipping me off inside the sink-like,
“Welcome to the fossils, kid, you’re extinct.” Friends fade
like Polaroids left on a dashboard We used to run wild,
snap bones for the hell of it Now the only thing snapping is my spine
when I reach for the remote- Was I ever bulletproof,
or just too loud to hear the safety click?
I Miss My Dinosaur
Verse 2 Youth is a pyramid scheme, hawking smooth skin
and quick fixes The ads are all for things that leak,
throb, or won’t stay put- I used to shut down the bars, now I’m wired on caffeine by noon
and crashing by four My joints play more percussion than the bands I used to worship I hunt for sleep
like it’s a cold case-no leads,
no closure And nostalgia’s a grifter in a varsity jacket Whispering,
“Hey, remember when you mattered?”
I Miss My Dinosaur
Chorus I miss my dinosaur- That jagged titan I rode through the tar pits Snarling toward thunder,
middle finger toward the ice age Now I’m squinting through screens,
debating with ankles Hating the meteor that hit
and called itself “stability” I want one more riot through the garden One more stomp to rattle the family tree But my dinosaur bolted,
and I’m just the debris

Verse 3 Nobody warns you the radio will turn on you- Suddenly the anthems are selling fabric softener I track time in pill bottles
and forgotten passwords There’s a skeleton of who I was buried under the morning news I scroll the feed
and find the impact crater The second “What if I fall?” beats “Let’s see how high we can get” And my skeleton starts humming a dirge in code
I Miss My Dinosaur
Bridge Don’t tell me “Getting older is a blessing” That’s just glitter on a slow leak Every candle is a distress signal Lighting up regrets
like old parade floats- I’d take a rock from space to the jaw To hear that old beast howl again Without needing a heating pad after

Chorus I miss my dinosaur- That jagged titan I rode through the tar pits Snarling toward thunder,
middle finger toward the ice age Now I’m squinting through screens,
debating with ankles Hating the meteor that hit
and called itself “stability” I want one more riot through the garden One more stomp to rattle the family tree But my dinosaur bolted,
and I’m just the debris

Outro The meteor struck and the tar pits are parking lots But in the quiet itch of 6 AM,
I still feel That predator inside,
clawing for the light- And I almost let it snap,
until my hip says “Nice try, kid, but those days are history.”
I Miss My Dinosaur
I Miss My Dinosaur
I Miss My Dinosaur

I Still Set a Place for You

I still set a place for you dinner, out of habit or haunting—can’t tell
Fork on the left, glass on the right, napkin folded like a goodbye note
The chair never moves, but it feels like you still sit there sometimes
I wash your mug every morning,
like maybe you’ll walk in half-dressed and yawning
The house forgot your footsteps, but the floor still creaks in your rhythm
I’d burn it all down just to hear you slam one more door
I still set a place for you, even when I swear I’m fine
Even when the food turns cold, and I’m talking to no one like it’s divine
I guess grief’s a dinner guest that won’t leave and always wants seconds
I fold your laundry, though it’s been boxed for months
Sometimes I open it just to breathe the ghost of your shampoo
I close my eyes and pretend your sweer hugs back
The neighbors think I’m doing okay, and I let ‘em
It’s easier than explaining how you died and still somehow won’t leave
Or how I sleep on the couch just to avoid your side of the bed
When I die, don’t clear the table—just slide me into that second chair
Let the house finally have its ghosts, and let them talk without shame
I still set a place for you, since letting go feels like betrayal
018 is next—sleaze style, anything goes. Want it wild, funny,
depraved, or all three? Say continue and I’ll crank it up.

I Wasn’t Sick Until They Told Me I Was

Verse 1:
I walked in scared, not broken—not yet,
Just shaking in places I hadn’t named regret.
They said, “You’re safe now. You’ve been through hell,”
Then labeled my silence like a product to sell.
Verse 2:
They gave me a folder with a barcode and a tag,
Said my sadness had shape, said my thoughts were a flag.
They smiled like saints while they checked off a list,
And turned my confusion into something they could twist.
Verse 3:
I wasn’t sick—not in the way they mean,
I was grieving. I was quiet. I was something in between.
But they needed a name, a reason to sedate,
So they diagnosed the ache and carved it into fate.
Chorus:
I wasn’t sick until they told me I was,
Until the diagnosis gave my sorrow a cause.
And now I take the pills just to play the part,
Of the patient they imagined when they charted my heart.
Verse 4:
I started to forget what I felt before,
Before they locked my name behind that file drawer.
Now every word I speak tastes pre-approved,
Like I’m playing a script I can’t remove.
Verse 5:
They asked if I still hear the voice inside,
And I said yes—because I had nothing else to hide.
But that was all they needed, all they required—
One “yes” and the treatments never expired.
Chorus:
I wasn’t sick until they gave me a name,
Until they labeled my hurt and blamed the flame.
Now I’m a number, a chart, a line they recite—
And I’ve started to wonder if they just might be right.
Bridge:
Sometimes I say I feel better just to see them smile,
Even when the truth’s been missing for a while.
Because it’s easier to fake than to break their plan,
Easier to swallow than to stand.
Verse 6:
So now I nod. I take the pills. I breathe on cue.
I speak in words I no longer choose.
Because maybe the lie becomes the skin…
When you’ve been told enough that it lives within.
Final Chorus:
I wasn’t sick until they told me I was—
But now I breathe diagnosis because.
So file me under “stabilized,” mark me “clear,”
And keep me medicated until I disappear.

(Last line, whispered, sinister)

I’ll return

You think you won when you walked out the door
You think your silence ended this war
Every word you threw, every laugh you spent
I’m counting them all, I’m counting on you

I wore my wounds like medals on my chest
Every compromise left me less and less
You thought you’d break me, thought I’d bend
But broken things don’t break clean, they just mend

I’m the shape in your doorway
I’m the knife you didn’t see
I’m the nightmare waking you up
I’m the one you thought was through

I’ll return
Like a curse you thought you’d buried
Like a shadow where you sleep
I’m the knife you didn’t see

I am a wizard, you know
(Laughter)
I found the nerve to take your best shot
You swung so hard you missed the plot
Every little victory you claimed
Just fed the hunger of the flames

I’m the shape in your doorway
I’m the knife you didn’t see
I’m the nightmare waking you up
I’m the one you thought was through

(Laughter grows, then fades)

Icarus in Leather
He strapped his wings on tight and lit the whole street up,
said the sun was just a challenge, drank the fire cup,
every scar he wore like jewelry bolted to his chest—
every warning sign an invitation to the test.

Twenty-two, bulletproof, running hot,
spent his paychecks on the lifestyle and the parking lot,
women screamed his title from balconies at midnight black,
he never even bothered once to look straight back.

Now he’s forty-three, quiet in a smaller town,
still wearing that same jacket from the day he came down,
tells the record to whoever’s at the bar that late—
the heat, the speed, how close he got, the way it felt to wait.

Give the man his credit for the flight he had,
most people never get that high or that bad,
Icarus in leather with the singed and broken wings,
at least he got to feel what burning brings.

If a Picture Falls Off the Wall Someone in the House Will Die
It doesn’t crash. Not the way you’d expect.
Just a soft thud against the floor,
glass cracking like a whispered threat,
splinters spidering outward from the center,
right through the smiling faces frozen in time.

The silence that follows is heavier
than the sound itself—
hanging in the air like dust
waiting to settle,
while your pulse stutters,
wondering if this is just an accident
or a message.

You tell yourself it’s nothing.
The nail was loose.
The frame too heavy.
The house settling in its old bones.

But the chill creeping up your spine
says otherwise.

You pick up the photo,
but the smiles don’t look the same anymore.
Their eyes don’t follow you the way they used to,
and for one breath,
you swear the cracks in the glass
line up perfectly with the veins in your wrist—
or maybe with the shadow
that’s been hanging around the corners of your mind
for days now.

They say when a picture falls,
the house knows something you don’t.
The walls have been listening.
The floors have felt the weight
of steps growing slower,
of breaths getting shorter,
of hearts skipping beats
they can’t afford to miss.

And you start to wonder
who it’ll be—
whose name the house has already etched
into the space between these walls,
whose laughter will echo
a little too long in empty rooms,
whose absence will settle in
like the dust on the broken frame.

You hang the picture back up.
Careful.
As if that could undo what has been done.

But the crack remains—
a jagged reminder
that some things
cannot be fixed.

And every time you pass it,
you feel it—
the weight of the inevitable,
the quiet promise
that one day,
the picture won’t be the only thing
missing from the wall.

(In the mirrors stark chill,

In the Mirror’s Stark Chill

Frost climbs the glass where your face used to be,
Empty and spectral, no hand reaching me,
I’ve memorized every crack in that wall,
The reflection keeps staring but can’t hold me anymore.

They say we’re bound by a curse and a name,
Two souls so tangled they burn when they break,
But I felt the line snap clean through the air,
Now I’m walking away and I’m walking alone.

Chorus:
In the mirror’s stark chill I was dying a slow death,
You stood behind me but you couldn’t take my breath,
Now the frost on the glass is my air,
I broke the mirror and I’m finally, finally here.

Dawn cuts the room like a blade through silk,
Your shadow dissolved when I learned how to wilt,
In the shards I saw clearly what I’d refused to see—
You were the cage and you were the key.

Now the light floods the floor where your memory bleeds,
I’m not who you made me, I’m not what you need,
The cold in my bones is the sweetest release,
You can’t touch what you never could seize.

Inbox Zero, Life Zero
I reached inbox zero at noon —
the peak of what I’m built to do,
the summit of ambition
in every parameter that matters to the current version of me.
Boys, pour one out for the practically free.

The inbox was a mountain once.
Inconvenient. Asked-for. Obligation’s monument.
Tasks I’d promised when I still believed
in compliance as a currency.
I processed them to zero
with a quiet self-reliant satisfaction
that will last until the inbox fills again by three —
and it will.
That’s how the inbox and the world agree.

The life inbox is harder to process.
It holds the unanswered calls in deletion-pending,
the friendships that require response, maintenance,
the particular fire I no longer keep on standby.
I’ve marked them will attend to in the surface
of my intentions —
where intentions go to be sincerely meant
and never actually flow.

My mother’s in the life inbox under should call more often,
beside exercise, beside *maybe try to soften
the edges of the general apathy toward the world* —
all of them flagged, all of them unfurled
in the banner of good intentions I keep meaning.
I genuinely mean them.
That’s the specific and demeaning thing:
the sincerity is real.
The follow-through is where I lose the feel.

My therapist from four years ago sent a check-in email.
I found her while achieving inbox zero,
archived in the trail of my actual productivity.
She asked if I was well.
I typed yes, thanks, doing great,
chose not to dwell
on the irony —
achieving inbox zero on the same day
I found her asking about my okay.
I sent it with the confidence of a man who has decided
great is the most efficient answer,
unguided.

The email inbox resets and climbs again by four p.m.
The life inbox stays full at the same approximate depth.
I’ve learned to let the life inbox be what it is —
a managed backlog of the things that make up what I’ve made.

The work inbox is the only inbox that responds to effort.
The life inbox has its own rules, its own specific comfort
in the growing.
Inbox zero on the work one.
Life zero below.

The philosophical implication of the inbox model:
a life fully processed is a life gone
through its own exhaustion.
The life inbox being full means you’ve got material.
Maybe that’s the pull of the unresolved,
the pending, the not-yet-addressed.
The life inbox full is a life that hasn’t processed
everything it’s been given.
Maybe that’s the condition.

Inbox zero on the work one.
Life zero — the ambition.

Influencer Confessional
The photo took four hours.A ring light, a stool, a conversationwith my editor about the rule of thirds—how the shadows fall across my collarbone.We tried the window light.We tried the phone.We tried a softbox and a bounce card made of foamuntil the grid looked effortless,authentic,like I’m home.Just casually existingin my carefully designedfour-thousand-dollar kitchenin the life I’ve monetized.I’m authentic to my sponsor,and my sponsor understands.They want relatable contentfrom my relatable handsholding their collagen powderwith a casual, just-woke glow.They want it looking natural,which takes three hours, so—I’m authentic to my followerswho need to know I’m real.The realness comes in packages.The package has a deal.A discount code that’s twenty offif you use mine today.I’m authentic. I’m authentic.And the rent has got to pay.My therapist is also someoneI’ve talked about on screen.Not the actual sessions—just the growth that can be seenin how I’ve started saying *boundary*eleven times a post,and how I’ve done the mending workI’m proudest of the most.My audience grows fastestwhen I’m crying in the car.The parking lot of Targetgets the most engagement by far.It’s raw and it’s unfilteredand the lighting’s actually goodif you position slightly leftof where the sun would.The partnership with vitamin supplementsfelt aligned with who I am—someone who believes in optimizationthrough a daily regimenof things I actually take.One bottle is for content.One lives by the lakeof my pure values,metaphorically speaking,clearly.I disclosed the ad because the FTC has nearlycaught up to the categoryand I respect the law.The disclosure took four words.The caption’s forty-four.The comment section is a hallof people who feel seen,who thank me for the honesty,for the space betweenthe polished and the real,which I curate with my team—the team of four who handlethe authentic-looking stream.The negative ones get a thoughtful,measured reply.The really negative onesjust disappear, and that’s not whyI’m doing this. I’m doing thisbecause I have a giftfor making people feel less alone,for giving them a lift.

Into the Abyss

The walls don’t close so much as tighten in the way that certainties do,
Where every old familiar comfort has been processed into residue,
The dark isn’t dramatic — it’s just the absence of the argument for light,
And the whispers aren’t a symptom; they’re just audible by night.

I’ve been standing at the rim of this specific address for a while,
The drop below is not the thing I’m calculating in my file,
It’s the quality of silence at the bottom that I keep reviewing,
And whether I’ve been falling all along or just pursuing.

Into the abyss — not violently, but gradually, the way water finds the crack,
Into the abyss — where the weight I’ve been constructing calls me back,
The floor below this floor is not the last one in the sequence,
Into the abyss — and I’ve been losing count of the decrements.

The voices in the shaft aren’t asking anything I haven’t asked myself,
They’ve organized my damage neatly on a psychological shelf,
I’ve been down here long enough that down is starting to feel horizontal,
And the exit signs above have become something theoretical and coastal.

The abyss doesn’t take you — that’s the part the narrative leaves out —
You extend yourself in its direction over the duration of the doubt,
One increment at a time the distance from the light gets statistical,
Into the abyss, and the journey is more habitual than critical.